


For Adaline

by green_dragons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drawing, Flashbacks, Hate Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, NOT CENTRIC - Freeform, OR V-SHAPED, PTSD, Polyamory, Pregnant Tony Stark, Steve/Tony/Bucky - Freeform, Stony - Freeform, Stucky - Freeform, TW - check chapters, Threesome, adaline - Freeform, daughter - Freeform, metal arm hee hee, not a/b/o, seccs, shower, stuckony - Freeform, tacos and cheesecake, uh oh, winteriron, winterironshield - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:41:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24614671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_dragons/pseuds/green_dragons
Summary: Steve shouldn’t be doing this, he really shouldn’t. How could he have given into this? He was supposed to be stronger than this, but one heated glance from a billionaire and suddenly his composure is gone, his dignity thrown out the window. Tony had pressed him over and over again and he knew he should have said something earlier, told him to stop, but he hadn’t, and now look: he was fucking him against a wall.Bucky keeps eye contact with Tony as he gently brings his hand up, keeping it close to his lips for a second, simply breathing slightly warm air over them, before kissing the knuckles tenderly, gently, reverently.In which Tony gets pregnant and Steve leaves. Bucky’s here, however, and he helps the three of them carefully piece back together their broken selves, falling in love with Tony faster than lightning splits the sky, and slowly back in love with Steve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 419
Kudos: 493





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a/b/o, boys can just get pregnant. I didn't want to deal with the dynamics of a polyamorous couple in the a/b/o AU, so *makes jazz hands* there you go.

“Why so tight, Capsicle?” Tony asks, leaning casually against the side of the quinjet, faceplate up and a wicked smirk painted on his face. The other man is standing in front of the ramp, spine so ramrod straight and rigid, he almost makes Tony feel guilty for slouching. Almost.

Steve grits his teeth. “Just go, Iron Man. We’re wasting time.”

Tony grins a wicked smile with too many teeth, a positively feral expression on his face, ignoring the small twinge that comes from the command and the zero fondness or affection it holds. “For you, baby, there’s always time.” He winks gaudily and salutes lazily, watching him with sharp eyes for some kind of reaction.

Steve clenches his jaw and brushes past him, evidently trying to refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting to what he said. He walks stiffly to his seat and pulls the straps secure over his chest with jerky movements, and Tony watches with no small amount of amusement, before flipping down his faceplate and lifting into the sky with a quick blast of his repulsors. 

The call is in some city half an hour away by suit, and the antagonist is on the outskirts of the city, looking like they’re going to stay there for a while. Here there’s more greenery and highway than actual buildings, and Tony breathes a sigh of private relief, glad there aren’t too many civilians. 

He spies the guy they’re trying to take down… no, scratch that. It’s a girl, and she isn’t mutated, or magical, or even clad in a silly costume like most of the “villains” they fight, as far as Tony can see. Instead, her torso and head are just visible in the glass cockpit of a huge metal robot crashing down the highway, cars veering out of the way of the clunky feet with awful screeches of their brakes. 

She seems uncoordinated, and he can clearly spot several points of weakness where one repulsor blast will take the whole thing down, but he has to give her some credit for perseverance. The police vehicles following behind her with their alarms blaring and lights flashing do nothing to change her speed or impede her.

He swoops in but doesn’t go immediately for the aforementioned weak spots. Instead, he flies straight into the metal knees of the robot, his arms coming up to push at the joints with all his might. His muscles are straining even through the suit, and he sends more power to the repulsors in his boots until he hears an ominous creaking.

He ducks out of the way, hovering a small distance away from the robot as it falls to its knees with a resounding crash, the girl’s expression clearly panicked. He aims carefully at the center of the giant and blasts it with his repulsors, watching with no small amount of glee as it powers down.

“See that, J?” he asks his AI inside the helmet, grinning widely. 

“Very impressive, sir,” comes the dry reply. “First try.”

“Too right it was,” Tony crows. He flies down to the glass covering and pries it from the metal shell of the robot, freeing the girl inside. His faceplate goes up, and he looks over to the police, who have caught up with them, clearly at a loss for what to do.

He waves them away, gesturing at his suit, and they seem to understand. He turns back to the girl and catches both her hands where they’d been sneaking towards a belt around her waist, pinning them above her with one gauntlet while the other swipes the belt away, placing it behind him. 

She scowls at him, and he notices vaguely that she looks really young. She looks pretty tall and there’s a mature downturn to her mouth that suggests some sort of sadness or tragedy, but upon closer inspection, she couldn’t be any older than seventeen.

“What’s your name?” he asks conversationally, smiling at her.

She looks like she’s going to say something defiant, or at the very least ignore him and stay silent, but she appears to lose a battle with herself as her eyes go flat and a quiet, “Eva,” comes out of her mouth.

“Eva, mind telling me how you built your suit?”

“Yes,” she snarks back, and Tony grins.

“What kind of engine did you use?” he asks, and watches in delight as the corner of Eva’s mouth twitches slightly, a gleam appearing in her eyes as she puffs up a little. Oh yeah, she’s basically mini-him.

The team finds him like that, talking giant metal suits with a teenage girl, his free hand gesturing madly as he explains how to make the robot’s movement smoother.

To say Steve wasn’t happy was an understatement. 

They’re back in the tower, Eva being questioned in another room by Fury, the rest of the Avengers having disappeared by now. Steve stayed behind, however, to corner a very reluctant Tony. 

By now Tony had disassembled the suit and was sitting on a bench in the corridor, wearing just a Queen shirt and beat-up jeans, feeling strangely vulnerable with just the other man for company and no suit to cover him up.

“Tony, what were you _thinking?_ ” Steve walks the length of the hallway and back, running a hand through his hair and tugging.

Tony shrugs, not sure how to answer him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

“I– what were you even _doing?_ ” he says, his voice raised slightly. 

“Talking,” Tony answers, examining the grime beneath his fingernails. “About science-y stuff. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Tony makes the mistake of looking up, and it takes a conscious effort not to twitch under the scrutiny of the gaze that’s being directed at him. Steve’s glaring at him, his blue eyes pinning in him in place and piercing straight through all of his bullshit. 

“I just–” he goes back to pacing. “There were people in cars who got into car crashes, and instead of helping, you’re talking with a teenage girl?”

Oh. Well. He hadn’t noticed, too focused on the giant robot. He had a feeling saying that wouldn’t go over very well, however. 

“I was containing her?” he says, cursing himself for making it sound like a question.

“The police could have handled her until we arrived.”

“I didn’t know where you guys were!”

“Your comms weren’t on!” Steve explodes, the disappointment disappearing so fast from his face it nearly gives Tony whiplash, only to be replaced by the unbridled anger that only comes with people not doing what they’re being told, dammit. “You have a duty, Tony, and you’re not doing it!”

Tony snorts. “I’m doing it a whole lot more than you are,” he remarks, looking back down, this time examining one of the rips in the knee of his jeans. It’s fraying slightly, and he pulls at one of the threads absentmindedly, still studiously avoiding looking up.

Steve’s silent for too long, and that finally makes him give in to the urge and meet his eyes. Steve scrubs a hand over his face, ruffling his hair further so it falls over his forehead. It’s a surprisingly good look on him, Tony thinks, not that he would ever say anything of the sort.

“God, Tony,” Steve says, and he sounds resigned as if all he wants is to be somewhere else. “Does everything with you have to be about _sex?_ ”

Tony ponders it for a moment. “Depends. You offering?” He winks.

Steve throws his hands up in the air in defeat and snatches up his shield where it’s lying against the wall. “This is going to change, Stark,” he says. “Make all the dirty jokes you want, but people were hurt and one of my team members didn’t do anything about it. That’s not going to fly.” He turns on his heel and leaves, shouldering his shield.

Tony watches him go, wondering why he just couldn’t seem to do anything right.

-

The alarm goes off in the middle of the night, only a couple of minutes after midnight. Tony’s down in his workshop fixing one of his suits when the piercing shriek of the alert goes off, making him startle and nearly burn his hand off with his soldering iron. 

He swears colorfully and curses his job but is already reaching out his arms, ready for the titanium parts to fit smoothly around his body. He races outside as fast as he can, already spying Steve and the others jumping into the quinjet, which is already slightly off the ground. 

They look mostly alert, their suits pulled on properly and weapons at the ready, but he knows the midnight call affected them more than they’re letting on.

“JARVIS, status,” he barks into his helmet, already rising into the air. 

“Head forty-three miles East, sir. The scene is the downtown of a small suburban city. Any havoc should be impossible to miss,” JARVIS answers smoothly, sounding as calm as always.

“Good AI," Tony praises. "Wait, downtown? How many cars are out? What exactly are we dealing with here?”

“Minimal cars and pedestrians, several small drones, and a kind of foam.”

“Foam?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Tony frowns. “Should I be worried?”

“I cannot determine your own emotions, sir,” JARVIS reminds him.

“A pity,” Tony sighs, flying a bit higher and noting with interest as the bustling of the city that never sleeps fades away to more quiet and green neighborhoods.

JARVIS was right. There was no way what was happening could be missed. A buzzing sound that sounded like angry wasps got louder as he approached his destination, and by the light of the streetlights he could make out the makers of the noise. 

Dozens of little buzzing drones are flying around, their movements jerky and uncoordinated as they travel in loose formation. White liquid is dropping from their underbellies, dripping it all over the highway and parked cars as they meander along. It’s soupy and thick, like cream of mushroom, and doesn’t seem to be doing anything. 

A swell of relief washes over Tony because thank goodness it’s the night. Otherwise, there’d be people in the cars, and he really didn’t want to test the corrosiveness of the white goo.

He swoops down, scanning them. 

“Anything special with them, JARV?” Tony murmurs. 

“I can’t detect anything beyond the ordinary, sir.”

“Safe to blast?”

“I imagine.”

“Alright, then. Patch me through, would you?”

The familiar crackling of the comm starting in his ear is comforting, as much as Tony is loath to admit it.

“What’s your status, Iron Man?” Steve asks in his ear, and Tony feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Even with gooey robots running around, Steve’s priority is his team. 

“I’m fine, but these little guys are moving fast. Better get that ass in gear, Cap.”

“Stop talking about Steve’s ass,” Clint groans dramatically, sounding pained.

“What can I say, Legolas? It’s a fine ass. Could bounce quarters off it, probably.”

“Focus, you two,” Steve barks, and Tony lets a grin stretch fully across his face this time.

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” he responds cheerfully.

“Black Widow, I need you and Hawkeye on top of a building. Hawkeye, I want clean shots, Widow, I need you to be my eye on things. There only seems to be a few dozen, so this shouldn’t take long. Thor, take out as many as you can, but avoid lightning.”

“Aye, Captain”

“I don’t think there’s a need for Hulk, especially at this time of night.”

Tony can hear an odd raspy sound as Bruce clears his throat. “Actually, do one of you mind getting me a sample of that goo? I’d like to take a look at it if you don’t mind.” 

“Black Widow?” Steve asks.

“Sure,” she answers. 

It’s Tony’s turn to clear his throat, now. “And me?” he asks, trying not to sound like a petulant child.

“Air support,” Steve answers after a moment of hesitation, it’s not actually a response, and he knows it. Tony was the only one who didn’t get a clear direction, and he can’t help but feel a little hurt by the clear implications of it. 

They don’t need him. 

He watches as Clint and Natasha jump out of the quinjet, tucking and rolling onto the roof of a building. Thor swings his hammer, clocking one square on the top so it drops with a mournful buzz, shattering against the asphalt, goo seeping into the sidewalk. Steve drops out of the quinjet last, hurling his shield and taking out five at once, before giving direction to Natasha to get the sample for Bruce.

Tony hates the fact that he’s just twiddling his thumbs, and decides to make an executive decision. “Cap,” he starts, “I’m going in.”

He swoops down and blasts one with his repulsor, expecting it to explode, or at least drop. He certainly isn’t expecting it to start vibrating violently, shuddering in mid-air. He backs up, watching it with confusion, before the thing suddenly explodes, spraying goo everywhere, splattering the front of the suit.

“What was that, Iron Man?” Steve barks. 

“I was just helping,” Tony says. “You know, blasting robot ass, the usual.”

“Tony, stop!” Steve yells. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Tony hisses.

“You’re making the paste go everywhere, and we don’t know what it is.”

“Aw come on,” Tony says. “It looks harmless to me.”

“No. No more blasting. Just–”

He never hears the end of the sentence. Instead, Tony hears a grunt as Steve throws his shield, knocking out another ten, then: “Was that the last of them?”

“I think so,” Natasha says, panting a little. 

“One of ‘em clipped me on the shoulder,” Clint grunts.

“Wait, Clint, did any of the foam get on you?” Bruce asks, his deep voice suddenly urgent.

“Yeah. Doesn’t hurt though,” Clint says thoughtfully, and Tony can see him prod at the paste on his shoulder.

“This is not good,” Bruce mutters.

“What? Why? Bruce, is it dangerous?” Steve demands, immediately snapping back into his role as their team leader.

“I’m not sure, but it might start to burn in an hour or so. As in, second-degree burns or worse. I can’t quite tell how corrosive it’ll be to skin but I don’t think we should find out, Steve.”

Tony flies over to where the quinjet is and lands next to Natasha. Steve is scrubbing a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. He looks exhausted, but his voice is strong when he asks, “What should we do, Bruce?”

Bruce winces. “I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but decontamination showers are probably our best bet.”

“Aw, no,” Clint whines. “Come on, can’t we just take regular showers?”

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t want to take any chances. There’s only one on the jet and Clint, I’m sorry, but you have the most on you so you’re going first. We’ll try to get as many out of the way before we get back to the tower, but everybody who hasn’t showered by then will have to go together in the big one at the tower; we don’t have time to rig another shower.

“Tony, that means you too. You got a lot over your suit, and I don’t want to find out the hard way that some of it slipped through the cracks in the armor.”

Tony sputters indignantly. “I resent that, Brucie-bear! Cracks? There are no _cracks_ in my armor. I’d sooner be caught dead!”

“Just listen to Bruce, Tony,” Steve snaps, looking pained.

Tony shuts up then because as annoyed as he may be at the claim that his armor could have _flaws_ , he doesn’t want to pick a fight at one in the morning. So he rolls his eyes and climbs into the jet, walking to his seat in the back and shedding his armor into a heap on the floor.

He can see Natasha looking at Steve with something akin to concern, her eyes questioning. Steve shakes his head almost minutely, refusing her silent offer, and Tony wonders why that makes him feel so forlorn.

Thor is the last one on the jet, strapping himself in and laughing good-naturedly at Clint’s bitching about the stupid decontamination shower. 

“Fuckin’ hot in there,” Tony hears Clint complain while he undresses, completely shameless in front of his teammates. Tony notices that Steve has his head turned firmly away, a light blush sweeping the back of his neck, and smiles a little to himself. No matter how comfortable the rest of the team gets around their Captain, it’s never quite returned.

Tony wolf-whistles as Clint tugs his shirt off to join his pants on the floor, and Clint gives him the middle finger in response, not even breaking his litany of mingled curses and complaints. He steps through the slim door at the back, the panel closing behind him with a whoosh, and then it’s silent for a few minutes. The only sound is from a muttered conversation between Natasha and Bruce, and Tony wonders what for.

“What is disfavorable about this shower Clint speaks of?” Thor asks, a small crease in his eyebrow.

Tony grins. “It’s really hot, and you have to use this soap that burns with these scratchy scrubbers. It’s not fun.”

“Surely it is not that bad,” Thor muses thoughtfully.

“It’s that bad,” Clint grumps, one hand holding the towel around his waist while the other scrubs a second towel through his hair. “God, everything’s tingling. I feel like I just had sex with a loofa.”

Tony sniggers and Steve looks at him disapprovingly, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Bruce says apologetically, “but thanks for getting it done. Here’re some fresh clothes.”

“You keep clothes for us?” Steve asks, surprised. 

Bruce nods. “Just a shirt and sweats, but I figured something like this would happen. No underwear, though. Sorry about that.”

Steve seems impressed, but also a little upset, as if he was disappointed in himself for not thinking of it first. He clears his throat and says, “That was very thoughtful, thank you.”

Bruce smiles faintly at him and pulls a face when Clint drops his towel right in front of him, grabbing the clothes from his grasp and pulling them on.

“Coulson’s not going to be so happy,” Natasha warns from across the quinjet.

“Nah,” Clint says, but looks a little more worried than he did a second ago.

Thor’s next, and he seems quite excited by the prospect despite Tony and Clint’s reservations. Like the man before him, he strips outside of the door, his muscles rippling and flexing as he steps into the chamber. He comes out ten minutes later in a rush of steam, skin pink from all the scrubbing to ensure he was clean as a jellybean.

“Man of Iron, you were correct,” he says cheerfully. “That was quite painful.”

Tony snorts and moves to stand up to take his turn. “Not so fast, Stark,” Natasha calls. “I actually have the stuff on me, unlike you.”

“Well, hurry up,” he grumbles but sits back down. 

“Natasha, quickly. We’re going to be landing soon,” Bruce tells her, handing a fresh set of clothing to Thor in one enormous pile that is easily twice the size of Clint’s.

She nods and disappears, presumably to take off her clothes in the shower. It’s probably for the best, Tony thinks. She reappears wrapped in a towel barely five minutes later, hair wrapped neatly in another twisty square of cloth. She accepts the clothes from Bruce, who’d given her a hoodie and sweatpants instead of just a thin shirt to preserve her modesty better, and goes to the small bathroom to change.

The quinjet touches down soon after, and Tony feels the pit drop out of his stomach as he registers what this means. “I have to de-foam myself with Capsicle?” he says incredulously, looking at the other man sideways. Steve clenches his jaw but doesn’t outwardly acknowledge him. 

“Dude,” Clint says, his whole face widening into a smile. “You guys are goin’ to see each other naked!”

“It’ll be quick,” Bruce promises. “Here, take the clothes for after you get out.”

When Tony makes no move to grab them Steve sighs and accepts both sets, tucking them securely under his arm. “C’mon,” he says quietly to Tony, who ignores him in favor of glaring at Clint, who is leering at him while walking with the rest of the team out of the quinjet.

Tony groans, but stands up, letting the suit reform around his body. Bruce had said that he didn’t need to dispose of the suit, only give it a thorough washing, and the force of the wave of relief that overtakes him could have swept away a whole city.

He follows the straight line of Steve’s back silently, the only noises being the other Avengers talking quietly amongst themselves and the heavy clunking of Tony’s boots. The decontamination shower is on the ground floor for easy access, and Steve leads the way with no hesitation, pushing open the unassuming door to the changing room before the shower.

He sets the clothes on the blue bench by the door, separating the two piles. There’s a button on the wall and Steve hits it, a sudden hiss filling the small room as the showers turn on in the next room.

Tony suddenly realizes that he’s standing pressed against the wall in the armor as if he was trying to blend in with the cement of the changing room. All of the bluster and bravado seems to have been drained out of him, and he swallows, suddenly nervous in the small room with only Steve for companionship, who hasn’t so much as said a word since they left the quinjet.

Steve seems a little tense and isn’t looking at him. Which is fine. Tony is currently having a malfunction somewhere in his brain that is making his gaze fix on him, and refuse to move. He clenches jaw and tears his eyes away, staring resolutely at the opposite wall as if that could help anything.

Steve reaches back and slings his shield off his back, leaning it against the wall behind the bench with a muffled clang. Tony can’t help himself. He turns just in time to see Steve grab the bottom hem of his uniform and tug it up, revealing abs you could grate cheese on and firm pectorals, every muscle in between rippling and bunching as he wrenches it over his head in one swoop, turning it right side in with dextrous fingers and folding it before placing it beneath the bench. 

Tony sucks in a breath and tells himself to start acting normal. Unfortunately, the small sound has alerted Steve, who looks up sharply from where he’d been undoing his belt to pierce him with a glare. Blue eyes rove the length of his body quickly as if to say, _well? What are you waiting for?_

Tony narrows his eyes and turns away, shrugging out his armor quickly, and leaving it against the wall as he tugs his own shirt off and undoes the button on his jeans before pulling them down with his underwear in one quick yank, stepping out of them quickly. 

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds are of rustling fabric against skin, and the low hiss of the showers in the next room. 

He turns back around, subtly moving his arms over his chest to hide his scarring, and feels his jaw go slack a little when he turns around because Steve?

Is hung like a horse.

He’s standing straighter than ever, all hard muscle and sweeping lines and shadows, and Tony’s hand, for the first time in his life, itches for a pencil and sketchbook. This man deserves to be drawn. As beautiful as that all is, however, Tony can’t stop his eyes from dipping lower to sneak another peek at, Jesus, what must be ten or eleven–

“Stop,” Steve snaps. “Stop looking at… at… something you shouldn’t,” he finishes somewhat lamely.

Even so, Tony’s gaze immediately snaps up to his, and he regrets it dearly. Steve looks _angry_ which is a thousand times worse than tense. Tense means at least civil, but angry means Tony’s really done something wrong.

Still, something snaps back into place when Steve barks at him. He feels a positively feral grin curl the ends of his mouth, and he knows he’s leering.

“Why should I? Perfect specimen, indeed.” He licks his lips.

Steve clenches his jaw at that and turns around to yank open the door to the showers giving– yes, fantastic–Tony a perfect view of his ass. And what an ass it is. 

Tony hesitates a moment before stepping in with him but ultimately makes the step through the doorway, sliding it shut behind him.

Here the hissing is much louder, and he winces as he steps under the spray, feeling it pound his back at an uncomfortable temperature. Still, he grabs a scrubber from the rack on the wall and follows the lead of Steve, who’s already started roughly rubbing it along his skin in rhythmic circular motions, leaving soapy suds in its wake. They’re pressed against opposite walls; the shower is really only made for one person and neither of them is a particularly small man. Well, okay, _Steve_ isn’t a small man.

“So,” Tony starts, hating the thick haze of tension in the air, more overwhelming than the copious amounts of steam filling the small room. “Come here often?”

Steve growls, actually growls. Tony wonders why he’s losing his composure so fast today; it usually takes much longer. He figures Steve’s just tired.

“I think you know the answer to that, Stark,” he says, in an effort to sound civil, but Tony can hear how close he is to snapping.

“Oh, I don’t know. You tell me,” Tony drawls, hiding his glee when Steve looks at him.

He’s feeling reckless today. 

“Why would I be here often?” Steve asks with a cocked eyebrow, and it’s not a genuine question. He’s mocking him.

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s very…” he licks his lips, wondering how to phrase his next comment so it comes off as sultry, instead of creepy. “...private. Nice place to go and let off some steam, if you know what I mean.” He inwardly cringes because, okay, smooth.

To his surprise, Steve holds his gaze. “What _do_ you mean?”

“You’re alone, these walls are sound-proof, you can come down here whenever you want…” Tony shrugs before painting on a wicked smirk, making a crude gesture with his left hand, the one not holding the plastic scrubber.

“What do you want from me?” Steve asks frankly, and it throws Tony for a loop because… what does he want? But before he can puzzle out his response Steve continues talking. “Because it sounds like you want me to fuck you.”

Tony feels a sharp twist of arousal in his gut as he hears those words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

Steve takes a step forward, crowding Tony’s space the tiniest bit more. Unconsciously, he takes a step back, his back hitting the cold ceramic tiles of the white room as he encounters the wall.

“Do you want that?” Steve asks, his voice low, unhurried. His eyes, though. His _eyes_. They’re angry and full of a fire Tony’s very familiar with. Hatred.

“I can do that. I can pound you into this wall until you’re screaming, Stark, is that what you really want?”

Involuntarily, a small moan escapes Tony, and it’s like a barrier breaks. Steve rushes forwards and he’s suddenly there, bracketing Tony against the wall, hands braced somewhere above his shoulders. There’s a clatter as their scrubbers drop to the floor, forgotten in the face of more favorable activities, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care_ because Steve’s kissing him, licking into his mouth with harsh, violent swipes of his tongue, sweeping the contours of his mouth. 

Tony does his best to kiss back, but mostly his head is just tilted against the wall, powerless under the unrelenting ravishing of his mouth. One huge hand comes away from the wall to grasp Tony’s jaw, forcing it upwards and changing the angle of the kiss, and Tony moans.

Steve leaves off the plundering of his mouth to suck brutal hickies into his neck, his hand reaching down to grasp the other man. Tony moans again and slumps against the wall, tilting his head up and baring his neck to Steve, who growls and nips the side of his neck lightly, enough to leave faint teeth marks but not enough to break the skin. 

He can feel the slight thrust of Steve against his thigh, and unmistakable pride runs through him at the thought that _he_ did this to Steve. To Captain America. To a national icon. He’s reduced him to a man who’s humping another man’s thigh while he gets him off.

Gasps and shudders are torn out of Tony as Steve works the hand between his legs, and soon they turn into breathless curses spilling from his lips as he gets closer to the edge. Steve releases him then, dragging a heady whine from Tony as he does so, and grips his thighs, lifting him up and shoving him against the wall. Tony gasps at that, because _holy shit that was so hot_.

He moans obscenely when a finger squirms into him, and the next few minutes are spent in silence, broken only by soft grunts from Steve as he fucks Tony open with clever fingers, and desperate murmurs of “oh, God, _Steve_ ,” emitted from Tony.

When Steve deems him stretched enough he grunts as he lifts Tony even higher, before lining himself up and slowly sliding in. He groans, a low and guttural sound, as he’s slowly buried into Tony. Tony’s eyelids are half-closed with pleasure, and breath slowly leaves his body as he lets himself be impaled, moaning with Steve when he bottoms out. Steve leans against him for a few seconds to catch his breath before Tony cuffs him on the back of the head, saying breathlessly, “I thought you were going to fuck me?”

The only response is Steve pulling out and slamming back in, forcing a sharp gasp from Tony, his mouth falling open in pleasure. After that, Steve set a brutal and punishing pace, thrusting hard and fast, seemingly not caring about the person he’s pistoning in. His fingers are going to leave bruises in Tony’s thighs, he knows they are, but he can’t loosen his grip, can’t readjust them. 

All he can do is keep thrusting, over and over into the warm, pliant body in front of him, going faster and faster and sinking deeper and deeper in each time, even as fingernails begin scratching at his back, likely leaving long pink trails that will be healed within the hour. He can hear Tony getting louder, and it only serves to make him go faster, because dammit, this is so wrong. 

Steve shouldn’t be doing this, he really shouldn’t. How could he have given into this? He was supposed to be stronger than this, but one heated glance from a billionaire and suddenly his composure is gone, his dignity thrown out the window. Tony had pressed him over and over again and he knew he should have said something earlier, told him to stop, but he hadn’t, and now look: he was fucking him against a wall.

God, how he hated Tony Stark. The man was uptight, a righteous asshole, a swanky rich kid who thought he was better than everybody else because he was a genius. He was just a man in a suit of armor, take away that, what was he really? Just an emotionally repressed man with no filter. How arrogant. How rude. What a pathetic excuse of a person. Steve knew dozens of men worth ten of him, hundreds of men he would call a hero sooner than the man before him.

And what a whore. Tony Stark is a whore. He was dirty. He was probably the easiest man alive. It seemed every week there was a new supermodel he was bringing to his bed, yet another person he ensnared to do depraved things with. And God, did that make Steve one of them? Was he just another notch in Tony’s bedpost?

Oh, he hated him.

The thought made a shudder run through his frame and spurred a wave of anger to wash over him. He stops his relentless rhythm to pull out almost all the way before _slamming_ back in, not even caring if he’s hurting the man. A sob shakes through Tony, desperate hands coming up to clutch his shoulders, and Steve looks up at his face in surprise. 

Tony looks absolutely _wrecked_. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the shower, trails of water dripping from the strands down his face, mingling with tears as Tony sobs in pleasure, mouth slack and eyes rolled back as Steve pushes in again and again.

A weak hand tugs at his own sopping wet hair, and Steve leans forwards, capturing his lips, kissing the man as best as he could. He bites Tony’s lip and tugs, and a spasm of pleasure runs through the other man, warmth pouring over their two stomachs. 

Steve turns his head away from Tony’s lips as the man continues shuddering and slurring his name through his orgasm, tucking his face into the side of his neck, a wet strand of hair tickling his nose.

He thrusts as fast he dares, chasing his own finish, before he’s suddenly pushed over the edge and bites down on the nearest bit of skin, trying to be as gentle as possible but knowing he misses by a mile when the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. His vision whites out and he groans, pistoning weakly as he shakes against Tony, pressing him more firmly against the cold tile.

He finally comes down enough to slowly pull out, an action that makes both of them grit their teeth from discomfort, before he slowly lowers Tony back to the floor, panting and turning himself to the side to lean on the wall next to the other man.

It was a while before either spoke. 

“I’m pretty sure Captain America’s not supposed to fuck people against walls,” Tony tells him, his voice a little breathless. He’s noticeably sagging against the wall.

There’s a brief spell of silence. It’s too much.

Steve leaves.

There’s still scalding water pouring forth from showerheads in the walls, and Tony can feel the steam curl delicately against his skin, can feel the rising and falling of his own chest as he struggles for air that’s been knocked out of him, can feel the cold press of tiles against his back, and at the same time can’t feel a damn thing. 

He watches him go, the blood running down his neck mingling with the burning water and turning it a pale pink. He’s pretty sure Pepper has a pair of shoes in that color. He’s pretty sure he gave them to her.

Oh, what he does when he’s in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs awkwardly* so that happened. I, uh, hope you guys liked it, and if you leave comments or kudos I'll love you forever <3
> 
> This will update every Monday/Tuesday for the foreseeable future, and if you have any questions, suggestions, or corrections, I'd love to hear 'em!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint loses his croissant to the sidewalk, the Winter Soldier shows up twice and plays nurse, Steve clenches his jaw too much, and Tony... Tony's been seein' a lot of his toilet bowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining or coming back <3 <3

The next four weeks are a blur. 

Steve refuses to speak to him after they fuck for the first week, barely managing to talk to him in missions, no matter how civil. In the three weeks that follow, he relaxes somewhat, and they’re now on more friendly terms than they had been before. 

Any mention of the shower, however, and Steve clenches his jaw and acts cold towards Tony for the rest of the day. Steve has yet to smile at him, and they are most certainly not friends, but they can be in the same room as each other without fighting and have even managed to make some small talk, even if it is still about work.

Everything seems like it’s evening out back into a place where Tony doesn’t feel the need to hide in his workshop for hours on end, until another character begins popping up. The Winter Soldier’s been spotted several times now and seems hellbent on Steve, for whatever reason. They haven’t gotten a close-up of his face yet and, like the rest of them, they just assume the Winter Soldier is just another Russian soldier Hydra managed to brainwash.

They’re on a mission and Tony is just ripping the head off of a doombot when JARVIS whispers urgently into his ear that the Winter Soldier is near the premises.

He looks up, blasting another doombot absent-mindedly, narrowing his eyes as he tries to spot him. He finally does, lurking in the shadows of a building, a mere smudge of black in the shadows. Christ, does that man know how to blend in. 

“J, switch the comms to just Cap.”

“Iron Man? Why do we have a private connection? This is not the time for jokes,” Steve snaps, and Tony can see him a couple of hundred feet away, slamming two doombots together. Tony takes a moment to appreciate how his arm muscles bunch up as he does so, and nearly forgets to answer.

“The soldier’s been spotted,” Tony tells him, then curses as a robot goes flying above his head, impaled by one of Clint’s arrows. “Damnit, Legolas! No food fights!” he yells at Hawkeye, who grins back waspishly. Clint gestures towards his ear and… oh, great. He lost his comm again.

“Where?” Steve barks. 

“Hang on, Capsicle.” Tony blasts another two robots in the chest before sweeping down and lifting Steve off the ground, carrying him to the roof of a building that will provide a better vantage point to see the Soldier. When they land, Steve immediately hurries over to the edge, looking down.

“He’s staring at us,” he says grimly.

Tony shakes his head. “Nothing gets past him. What do you want to do, Cap?”

“We could try talking to him?” His voice tilts up in a question, and Tony sighs.

“You go finish the mission. I’ll go.”

“No, Tony, don–”

“Too late, old man!” Tony yells as he lifts off the roof, ignoring Steve’s cries as he flies down to where the Winter Soldier is standing in the shadows, watching him with dark eyes. He looks murderous and angry but… there’s just something in his expression, something in his posture. He looks weary, apprehensive, as if he was two seconds away from bolting. 

Still, his hand is steady around the gun he has trained on Tony, held with his right hand. His left arm is crossed slightly over his body ready for shielding. It’s uncovered and all smooth and shiny metal and Tony _itches_ to get his hands on it. He wants to take it back to his workshop to pry it apart and learn how it works… God, what a beauty.

Tony sets himself down a few feet from the Soldier, flipping up his faceplate. He thinks he sees a flicker of… something... when his face is revealed, but he shrugs it off and holds his hands up in a placating manner.

“Woah, woah, don’t shoot.”

There’s nothing, then…

“Why shouldn’ I?” the Soldier asks in a gruff voice, slightly muffled by the mask he’s wearing. Tony is pleasantly surprised when a completely American accent answers him, sounding like it might even be from Brooklyn.

“Good point. Okay, ah, here’s the thing. We’ve noticed you around, and we were wondering–”

The Soldier lifts his gun further up, finger twitching closer to the trigger. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you,” he growls. Icy blue-grey eyes pierce through him over the black fabric.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Tony snaps back, rolling his eyes. “Put your gun away, Jesus.”

He doesn’t, but he does lower the firearm slightly. Good enough.

“I just wanted to give you something, here.” Tony tosses a small device to him, and the Soldier catches it easily with his metal hand. Tony tracks the metal fingers’ movement for a second, marveling at the control. He’s startled out of his reverie when the Soldier starts talking again.

“What’s this?” he asks gruffly.

“It’s a communicator. Just put it in your ear and ask for me. I’ll be able to talk to you through it.” This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

“Why.” It’s not phrased as a question, but Tony can hear it anyway. He wants to know why he would ever want to talk to Tony.

“Look, we’ve noticed you like hanging around. This is just to stay connected, just someone to call one if you need anything. That’s kind of all I’m good for.”

“What would I need?”

“A shower, for one thing. No offense, dude, but you reek.”

The Soldier gives him one more appraising look before tightening his grip on the firearm and aiming carefully at the center of Tony’s forehead. 

“You tell nobody the contents of this conversation. You don’t tell the Captain anythin’.”

Tony nods, wondering why Steve specifically but telling himself to stay quiet because _there’s a gun trained on him, hello_. He should have remembered that he could never leave well enough alone.

“Can I see your face? Just want to know who holds my life in their hands.”

Silver eyes narrow over the black mask. His metal arm makes an aborted movement upwards as if he was really going to tug down the mask, but in the end, he just turns and sprints away, boots thundering on the pavement. 

Tony sighs. He should’ve known. Still, something had seemed vaguely familiar. Not like personally met familiar, but like someone you’d have seen in the news. He shakes it off, and reaches to turn his own comm on before he remembers: oh, right, he gave it to the Winter Soldier. He sighs and lifts off the ground to rejoin the fight.

-

“What did he want?” Steve asks in the hallway after the debrief. Various agents and employees bustle around them, most glued to stacks of files in their arms or the blue screen of their phones; Steve has been very careful to not be left alone with Tony.

Tony shrugs. “He made me promise not to tell.”

“And you’re just going to allow that?” asks Steve in a pained voice, sounding frustrated.

“I gave him a comm.”

“Oh. Can you track it?”

Tony grins. “Yeah, meet me in the workshop in two hours.”

“Two hours? What are you going to do until then?”

“I’ll find something to do,” Tony says, and winks. 

The emotion immediately leaves Steve’s face. Walls are drawn up, and Tony curses himself internally. That had been over the line.

“Or, you know what? We can just do it now.”

“Let’s do that,” Steve says evenly. Professionally.

Tony pulls out his phone and types in some things, finally angling it to show Steve a glowing blue dot on a map, somewhere in Brooklyn.

Steve furrows his eyebrows, examining the map intently. The color drains from his face as understanding suddenly dawns on him. That’s in Brooklyn,” he says, his voice strangled.

“Well done, detective.”

“No, I mean, Tony, this is exactly where I grew up.” His voice cracks, but he continues on. “That’s my old apartment building.”

It takes a moment to realize what Steve’s saying because this is the first time since the incident that Steve’s called him Tony, not Stark. He feels something uncomfortably warm stir in his chest, and he stomps it down before it swells too much to be coherent.

“What would the Soldier be doing there?” Tony mutters. “You don’t think this has something to do with his weird fixation on you, do you?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m going,” he decides.

“Give me a second to get my suit,” Tony tells him.

“What, no, let me go without you. We need you here.”

“What do you mean they need me here? For what?”

“You know,” Steve mumbles.

Something cracks in Tony. “You don’t want me to go.”

Steve looks away but doesn’t deny the claim, shadowy guilt written on his face.

“Why?” he demands.

“Don’t you–” Steve clears his throat, tries again. “Don’t you think we need a little space?”

“Because you fucked me? It’s been a month!” Tony tells him incredulously. He’s all but forgotten about it, himself.

Steve grits his teeth. “Just don’t go after me, Iron Man. That’s an order.”

-

Steve comes down to the workshop two hours later like he said he wouldn’t, the mangled remains of something small and black in his hand. 

Tony grabs the carcass of his comm, dragging a light over to see it better. He looks up at Steve, wanting information.

“He wasn’t there. Just this.” He clenches his jaw and turns away, and Tony senses there’s something he’s not saying. 

He has a hunch, but he doesn’t want to pry. He tries another question. “Do you think we should try to talk to him again?”

“Yes, but maybe don’t give him anything. He doesn’t seem to appreciate it very much.”

Tony nods solemnly. “I guess we’ll just have to see.”

-

The Avengers don’t assemble for a longer period than normal, this time being two weeks before they go out, exactly six weeks from what Tony’s referring to as the “incident”. Tony wakes up groggy, scrambling out of bed before the alarm even finishes blaring. He curses the world for being evil the one day he actually spends the night in his bed, trying to get decent rest, but is out of the Tower, suit assembled around him, in barely five minutes.

Clint is outside of the quinjet, waiting for the rest of the team. He holds up a croissant in greeting. “Want one?” he calls.

Tony does want one. He shares a mutual love of buttery pastries with Clint, and it’s with a warm kind of happiness that he accepts it and flips his faceplate down.

“Thanks for getting me one–” oh. Oh God. Nausea swells like the tide within him, and he gags, turning away from Clint.

“Dude, are you–”

Tony throws up on the ground, heaving as he coughs. He retches again, shaking off a gauntlet to press a hand against his forehead. He groans and throws up again, head spinning. Suddenly, the croissant is possibly the vilest thing he thinks he’s ever smelled, and his other hand goes slack around it as he drops to his knees.

“Oh my God, are you sick?” Clint asks, coming to squat down next to him. Tony shakes his head, eyes tearing up as he gags again. 

“No idea,” he rasps. 

“Tony?” he hears behind him, and slight pressure is put on the shoulder of his armor.

“Are you alright?” Natasha asks, sounding worried.

Tony retches one last time before staggering to his feet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his un-armored hand and looks at the croissant forlornly.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Clint, and spits a wad of… something, off to the side.

“Dude, don’t be, seriously. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Tony waves a hand. “I’ll be fine,” he says weakly. “Must have eaten something funny.”

“Maybe you should stay home, Iron Man,” comes a firm voice behind him. “If you’re sick, you shouldn’t be fighting.”

“I just told you guys I’m fine. Seriously!”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Stay. We’ll be back soon.”

He herds the others into the quinjet and Tony considers defying orders, but quickly dismisses the thought as his stomach rolls. Yeah, okay, maybe not.

He wanders down to the gym for a few hours, checking the simulators to make sure they’re still in good condition. When he’s done with that he goes up to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich, cautiously sniffing it before cramming it into his mouth.

He’s feeling much better now and contemplates whether the consequences are worth it if he goes and joins the fight. It sounds like it’s going to take the whole day, and Tony wonders what exactly they’re doing. He thinks about asking JARVIS to pull up feeds but decides against it, not wanting to see the rest of his team out there without him.

Instead, he sets himself up in his workshop, dragging over a stack of things Pepper needs him to sign before Friday. It’s Tuesday. Might as well get started early, right?

He rereads the email, cringing at the impersonal words. He and Pepper split a couple of months ago, and they seemed to have opposite reactions to it. It had affected Tony a lot in the beginning, and it was a struggle to even look over papers with her signature, but he’d told himself to be a grown man, and get over it. She’s the opposite: alright in the beginning, but it’s five months later and she still takes a couple of days to answer emails that aren’t about work.

Tony sighs. She’ll get over it eventually, too.

He pulls a pen over to him and reads over the first contract, already bored. He’s just gotten to signing it, however, when there’s rapping noise on the glass wall across from him. He looks up, and his heart nearly stops.

There. There’s the Winter Soldier. Right outside of his workshop. He startles to his feet, ordering JARVIS to open the door.

The Winter Soldier comes in cautiously, hand resting on the tell-tale bulge of a gun in his pocket, but he doesn’t draw it. Progress. He’s also not wearing a mask, but his hair is drawn and it’s impossible to tell the exact features of his face. Tony also notices a distinct lack of the sleek black uniform he had been wearing in earlier sightings. He’s in civilian clothes now, tattered ones at that.

Tony clears his throat. “Can I help you?”

“Shower,” the Soldier says without preamble. 

“You knew they were gone, but I was here,” Tony says, wondering if he got slipped something, and that’s why he threw up.

“Didn’t see you in the fight,” the man offers instead, voice husky. He’s not lying, that’s really how he found out. Ah, so he didn’t get drugged. 

“Alright,” Tony allows. “The bathroom’s through there,” he says, pointing towards the back of his workshop. The Soldier nodded once, greasy hair sweeping over his face further. 

He stalks to the back of the room, disappearing behind the door. Tony looks after him, hands on his hips. He sighs. What even is his life.

After a minute or two, he can hear the hiss of water starting and figures he should go find some new clothes for him. The other clothes the Soldier had been wearing looked ripped and torn and had fit very poorly, and clearly were in dire need of a wash. He roots through the pile of clothing he keeps in the workshop for accidents, looking for the biggest shirt and sweatpants he can find. 

After, he goes through the fully stocked medical cabinet that Pepper had forced him to have after finding him one too many times with burns or scrapes wrapped in grease-stained rags, and unwraps a package of underwear, taking out some new boxers.

He figures that the black leather jacket the Soldier had been wearing was still sufficient, and only stopped to grab a pair of clean socks before making his way to the back of the workshop and rapping on the door. 

The water stops.

“I, uh, brought you some clean clothes.” Jesus Christ, he sounds like he’s offering some girl her clothes the morning after.

No answer.

“I’m just going to leave them outside the door…”

“No,” comes the reply, harsh and commanding.

“...Okay.” Tony’s not really sure what to do with that, so he walks back to his table and lays the pile of clothing on top of it, sitting down and settling back in as the water starts up again.

The door opens a few minutes later and the Soldier steps in the room. Tony looks back. “I have your cloth–” his voice dies as he takes in the bare face of the Soldier, hair wet and hanging limply on his shoulders.

“Oh my God. You–you’re… you’re Bucky. You’re Bucky Barnes.”

Visions of the same man drawn in loving detail splashed across the colorful pages of a comic flash behind Tony’s eyelids, and he finds it impossible to take a full breath as he takes in the man himself.

The Soldier shudders suddenly, a whole spasm that shakes his entire body. His eyes flicker with something, relief, maybe, but they soon close off as his normal expression takes over his face. The only thing there now is a grim, haunted look in his eyes, one that makes him look ages older. 

“Who’s Bucky?” he rasps.

-

“Wonder what’s wrong with Tony,” Clint murmurs. 

He can see Natasha electrocuting little green robots as she runs gracefully down the street, racing Steve to the end and the cluster of them there.

She hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think even he knows.”

“Do you think he’s sick? Or drugged?”

He hears a loud sigh. “We’ll just have to ask him about it, Clint.”

“Cut the chatter,” Steve snaps over the comms. “We’ll ask him when we’re back. Focus.”

Clint switched his comm to a private connection.

“Tasha, he knows something.”

“We’ll see,” she promises and takes out three little green things at once.

“Hey, nice aim!”

“Thank you.”

-

The Soldier–Barnes–licks his lips and adjusts the towel around his waist. He nods his head towards the pile of clothing. 

Tony is frozen for a second before he shakes himself out of his stupor and tells himself to pull it together, damnit. He clears his throat. “Yeah, they’re for you. You can change… oh, I guess right here is good too.

“Damn, you’d put any guy to shame,” Tony says, suddenly finding himself rambling and not knowing how to stop it. “Do you work out? What a silly question, of course, you don’t. Jesus Christ, look at those muscles, you’re really hot, you know that? Oh, I need to shut up.”

Barnes glances up at him briefly before looking back down and pulling on the sweat pants. His muscles ripple as he pulls the shirt over his head, and Tony finds himself tracing them with his eyes, wanting to lick them. 

Christ, he needs to get laid.

Images of Steve filled his mind after that thought, blonde hair wet and plastered to his forehead, muscles flexing as he thrust inside Tony’s ass, the groans that had been punched from him… On second thought, maybe don’t go there.

The click of a gun being cocked brings him back to the present with a jolt, and he raises his eyebrows at the Soldier. “Really? I give you a shower and clothes and you’re training a gun on me?”

“I wasn’t here,” Barnes growls and stalks out.

-

Tony sits in his chair for a long time after the Soldier leaves, cradling his head in his hands. He found Barnes. Barnes is alive. James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s best friend, the one from the comic books, the one that should have died falling off that godforsaken train seventy years ago… is alive.

What even is his life. 

God, how is he supposed to keep this from Steve? Furthermore, when he _does_ tell Steve, how is he supposed to phrase it?

_“Oh, hey Cap! Listen, that Winter Soldier guy who keeps shooting at you on missions? He’s Barnes. As in, your best friend who should’ve died seventy years ago. Bucky Barnes. Yeah, I know, crazy right?”_

Hmm. Maybe not.

Tony breathes air lightly out his nose and pulls the stack of paper back towards him, picking up his pen. He has every intention of burying himself into his work until he falls asleep on his feet, or he drinks himself into oblivion. He shakes his head. No, nope. Alcohol’s not an option, Stark. Sorry, buddy, try again another day.

Bruce, thankfully, finds him passed out from the former, snoring lightly with his hand curled around the remains of the comm he had given the Soldier. 

After he had finished his paperwork he had pulled the blasted thing towards him and was shocked and slightly turned on to find that the Soldier had crushed it in his hand. The grooves where fingers had curled around it weren’t deep enough to be from the metal hand, and Tony was extremely aroused by the thought that it probably hadn’t even taken that much effort.

Light is now pouring through the windows, and Bruce gently shakes Tony awake, stepping back when the other man’s head shoots up in alarm. 

“Oh. It’s you.” He sounds oddly disappointed.

Bruce gives him a crooked grin. “I’m sorry?”

Tony snorts. His stomach suddenly gives a rumble, and he presses a hand to it, wincing.

“You haven’t eaten since lunch, have you?” 

Tony nods, looking queasy.

Bruce sighs. “C’mon then, up you get.”

Steve’s in the kitchen when they get up there, cooking scrambled eggs and bacon. He looks up when they enter, offering a small smile for Bruce and a nod for Tony. 

It makes things twist inside Tony, ugly, not pretty, things. He ultimately decides to ignore it and pulls the plate Steve offers towards him, inhaling the scent of the eggs. His stomach suddenly rolls and he claps a hand over his mouth, running to the trash bin and leaning over it where he promptly empties the contents of his stomach. 

He retches again and grabs the sides, miserable. A small hand is suddenly on his back, rubbing gently, and Tony looks up to see Natasha looking at him concernedly.

“I’m fine,” he gasps out. He gags and heaves over the bin. He forces himself to straighten up and leans heavily against the countertop. Steve holds out a glass of water, his expression hard and unreadable. Tony ignores it and rinses out his mouth in the sink, managing to keep a few sips down.

He laughs weakly. “That was fun.”

“Have you been drinking, Stark?” Steve’s voice is as hard as his eyes, and Tony stares at him. So he’s Stark again, is he? He shakes his head. “No, no, haven’t been drinking.”

Somehow, he knows it’s the wrong answer when Steve’s face shutters, and he suddenly looks _tired_. “Alright,” he finally says, shoulders uncharacteristically slumped as he turns back to the stove.

Tony stares at him, wondering what’s going on. Does Steve _want_ him to be drinking? Natasha shakes her head and removes her hand from his back. “What’s going on, Tony? You’re not sick, are you? You haven’t been drugged?”

“No to all of the above,” Tony confirms. He holds up a hand. “And before you ask, I am not going to medical.”

Clint looks at him over the counter skeptically. “Really? Dude, this is the second time. Something’s up.”

Tony shakes his head. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, probably that.”

“If you’re sure.”

Tony puts a hand on his belly, rubbing it to try and vanish the nausea. “I am.”

-

The next day it happens again. He wakes up, goes to get breakfast, and throws up from the stench of whatever they’re having that morning, even if it’s as bland as porridge. After two more days of this happening, and the team starting to insist he goes to medical, he decides to just stay in his workshop all the time. 

He forces himself to get a goodnight’s sleep and skips breakfast. Even so, he finds himself bent over the toilet in the tiny bathroom.

It’s been two weeks now, and Tony has been staying almost exclusively in his workshop. Nausea follows him through the day now, but he only really throws up in the morning. He’s taken to just eating really bland things throughout the day, as anything more flavorful makes his stomach immediately protest.

He learned this lesson the hard way when Bruce cooks roast chicken for dinner, and Tony’s mouth is already watering as he sits down. He’s honestly not sure if the saliva is from the food, though. He’s noticed that lately he’s been getting a lot of saliva, which is a little strange, but probably not worrying. ‘

Regardless of the saliva, it only takes the faint hint of rosemary to hit his olfactory senses and he’s sprinting to the trash can, retching and gagging. Steve watches him like he always does when this happens, with a tight look around his eyes and a clenched jaw, almost like he’s watching his nightmare come to life. Tony doesn’t know how to approach him about it, so he doesn’t.

During this time, the team has been called on three more missions, all of which Tony politely declines. The Winter Soldier hasn’t been spotted at all, and when Tony combs through the videos later he can confirm: Barnes wasn’t there.

This morning, he decides that he’s going to go after the Soldier himself. The Avengers are out on a mission and for the first time in two weeks, he hasn’t thrown up in the morning. The faint feeling of nausea is with him, but he doesn’t feel the active need to throw up. He must be particularly lucky that day.

He suits up and flies away front the tower, asking JARVIS, as he flies, for the Winter Soldier’s coordinates. He’d slipped a small tracker in the hem of the shirt he’d given him, thinking that it would be useful at a later time. As it turns out, he was right. It was maybe a little underhanded, but so was the Winter Soldier, so.

His AI directed him to a courtyard with several metal tables and metal chairs, arranged in a row. Tony landed there, letting the armor fall off of him and adjusted his suit, walking forwards into the middle of the little square, looking around and waiting for his guest. 

The Soldier finally steps out of the shadows, the now familiar gun trained on him. Honestly, this was getting a little old. Something was held in his metal hand, clenched tightly in his fist, and Tony briefly wondered what it was, then figured the Soldier would tell him if he felt he needed to know. 

“Are you just going to stand there?” Tony called out.

“Where’s your suit?” came the gruff reply.

“I left it off. I didn’t want you to get hurt by ricocheting bullets.”

“Bullets?” the Soldier asks, his face twisting with confusion. 

“In case you decide to shoot me, asshole.”

The Soldier clenches his jaw at that. “You shouldn’t trust me,” he grinds out.

“Nah, you’d never hurt me, darlin’,” Tony says and gives him a crooked grin, one that he knows looks sexy as hell. 

The Soldier snorts at that, and comes a little closer, before his eyes narrow and he holds up his metal hand, still clenched around the mystery object. “This cannot happen again,” he growls and throws the contents of his palm at Tony.

Tony catches it easily with one hand and looks closer. A smile spreads across his face. What a little shit. It’s his tracker. If the Soldier knew he had it, then why did he let himself be tracked? And how would he have known Tony would be here at this exact time?

Whatever. He shakes his head, clearing it, and steps slightly closer, pocketing the little black tracker. “What do you say we take this back to the Tower? I’d love to take a look at your arm if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, actually,” the Soldier tells him, crossing his metal arm over his chest and lowering the gun, but not taking it off of Tony.

“Alright then, what do you suggest we do?” Tony asks easily.

“‘We?’”

“Well, sure. There’s two of us.”

The Soldier seems to consider it. “Food,” he finally says. Then, as an afterthought: “You’re buying.”

Tony smiles again, far more genuinely. “That I can do.”

They go to get sandwiches, the Soldier hanging back around in the shadows of the alley behind the building while Tony goes inside. 

It’s all going according to plan before it isn’t. Tony takes one step into the establishment, and immediately knows he’s in trouble. The suddenly overpowering smell of deli meats, various vegetables, and wiped down tables hits his nose like a freight train, and he runs back out and barely makes it to the alley the Soldier’s lurking in before he throws up on the cobblestones, shaking and shivering as his stomach tries valiantly to exit his body via his throat. 

So much for being lucky.

The Soldier tucks away the gun he had in the folds of his coat and goes over, waiting a moment before awkwardly placing a hand on his shoulder blades. 

Tony gags again, but the hand is helping. The press of his is different than Natasha’s, much firmer and less assured. The hand is bigger, and when it starts rubbing hesitantly it covers much more area, soothing him instantly. It grounds him, and as he straightens up and slowly starts taking in breaths, the hand doesn’t leave, which Tony is immeasurably grateful for.

The Soldier watches him wearily while he regains his breath, and removes his hand only when Tony looks at him. “Don’t move,” he says, and walks off. 

Tony watches him go, wondering what to do. He ultimately decides to trust him, and leans back against the dirty wall, watching passerby at the other end. He can see them, but he knows they can’t see him unless they actually poked their head around the corner, and the fact comforts him. 

Barnes comes back a few seconds later, a plastic cup held in his right hand. His left hand is hidden in the sleeve of his jacket, probably to hide it from people in the store, but now he shakes it loose and lays it on Tony’s shoulder, providing a comforting weight.

Tony accepts the water gratefully and turns around to rinse his mouth, spatting against the stone wall. “Thank you,” he rasps, touched by the gesture. The Soldier shrugs. Tony appreciates that he doesn’t ask. 

The Soldier suddenly sinks to the floor and pats next to him, staring straight ahead. Tony is wearing a very expensive suit that was tailored just for him, by one of the best tailors in all of New York. To ruin it on dirty alley walls by sliding down them, what a waste. Yet he still finds himself doing that very thing not two seconds later, leaving an inch of space between them.

Like the man next to him, he stares straight forward. It’s a while before either of them speak. Surprisingly, it’s the Soldier who goes first. 

“Who am I?” he asks, and it’s not cheesy, it’s not corny, it doesn’t sound silly, it’s just… honest. “Who do you think I am?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Neither of them is really feeling themselves at the moment.

Tony thinks to himself that he should say he’s Bucky Barnes, part of the Howling Commandos and national icon, but he catches it just before it slips out of his mouth.

What comes out instead is: “Whoever you want to be.”

Beside him, the Soldier is silent. “I have… a fixation, if you will, on your Captain. My instincts scream at me to shoot him. Who is he?”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath and ponders the question. Who is he, indeed? “A good man,” he says finally, through his teeth.

“Did he know me?”

“Yes.”

“Would he be able to help me?”

Tony doesn’t have to ask to know that the Soldier is asking about help for the gap in his memories, his killing instincts, and his fixation on Steve.

“Not sure. Probably,” Tony admits. He can practically hear the Soldier choosing his next words carefully.

“If I left,” he says carefully. “Would he come after me?”

Well, that’s an easy question to answer. “Yes.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Tony shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer.

“What’s my name?” the Soldier asks abruptly, turning to look at him. “You said… Bucky? Bucky Barnes?”

Tony nods.

“Is that my full name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, actually.”

The Soldier pulls a face. Startled, Tony laughs.

“What would you like me to call you?” Tony asks.

The Soldier seems to think over it carefully. “Bucky sounds right,” he admits. He looks carefully at Tony then, as if checking for a positive reaction.

Tony actually is surprised; he expected him to say James or Barnes but masks it quickly before it can show on his face. “You got it,” he says lightly instead.

Bucky nods. “I’m going to go now,” he says suddenly. “I won’t be back for a long time.”

“Alright.”

Bucky twists his whole body this time, to stare directly into Tony’s eyes. He holds it for a second, searching them, before getting to his feet and walking away, footsteps silent even on the stone.

Tony watches him go. He was just beginning to like Bucky.

What a pity that he’s leaving, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will update every Tuesday from here on out, and if anyone would like to beta for me, just let me know ;)
> 
> Also, thank you so much for the comments and kudos from last week's chapter, y'all keep the world spinning :) Also, I updated the summary to make it a little more relevant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve leaves, Tony's mystery is unraveled, Natasha tries her best to be supportive, and the whole gang except for Sam and Bucky now knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ;)

Bucky never said anything about keeping the conversation secret, and Tony knows him well enough now to know that was on purpose. So, he makes an appointment with one Steven Grant Rogers. Well, not really. He just shows up unannounced. 

Steve looks up from his sketchbook when Tony plops down next to him on the couch. His drawing is of Clint flinging himself off of a roof, bow in one hand, and hair in wild directions. He’s working on the curve of the bow when Tony interrupts him, and it’s with barely concealed impatience that he looks up.

“Hey,” Tony says.

“Hello.”

Tony bounces a little. “This is comfortable,” he notes. 

Steve sighs, a loud, blustery sound that’s full of impatience. “What do you want?”

Tony feigns being offended. “What? I can’t just sit next to my favorite Capsicle anymore?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Tony.”

“Alright, alright. So… I may have been lying to you about something? Well, not _lying_ per se, but not telling the whole truth so, uh–”

“Just get to the point, Stark,” Steve barks, and Tony’s getting confused by the names. Is he Tony or is he Stark? And why does it matter so much? Why is it bothering him like this? He shakes his head and turns to face Steve head-on. _Just like Bucky did,_ his traitorous mind supplies helpfully.

“Right, so, you know the Winter Soldier?” Steve’s eyes narrow.

“Yes.” 

“I, uh, I know who he is,” Tony mumbles. 

“Well?” Steve snaps. 

“You’re not going to like it,” Tony warns. Steve growls at that. “Alright, alright! It’s, uh, Barnes.”

Tony sits back then, having not realized he had been leaning forwards. Steve’s face opens, suddenly, and there’s nothing to be seen but pure unbridled anger and hatred, all directed at _Tony_.

“Is this a joke?” he asks quietly, dangerously. His hand is shaking around his pencil ever so slightly, the tip quivering. Tony can see the pencil bending, small fissures appearing in the wooden exterior. 

“No,” Tony says quickly, forcing himself not to quail under the scrutiny. “No jokes, promise. It really is him.”

Then Steve’s face breaks open, and the anger is gone, leaving a startling cocktail of emotions that should never be seen on Captain America’s face. Tony reads relief, and wonder, and hope, so much _hope_ , but also hurt and disbelief… Steve catches him analyzing his face and quickly schools it, shuttering down.

Tony… Tony shouldn’t be so hurt by that. He shouldn’t be hurt by Steve closing his face off like that, as if the absolute last thing he wanted was for Tony to know what he was thinking. After all, what thing has he done to earn that sort of trust? He looks away, and fiddles with a loose thread on the couch. 

“Where is he?” Steve asks suddenly, urgently.

“He left,” Tony says quietly. “He’s waiting for you to find him.”

Steve clenches his hands into fists around his paper and pencil. The pencil finally succumbs to the pressure and snaps in half.

“I’m going after him.”

Tony nods. He expected nothing less.

-

Steve leaves. 

Again.

The day dawns brilliant and blinding, the bright sun reflecting off all the shiny surfaces in the city, warming passerby. Steve comes down to the workshop to tell Tony personally, but he says it quickly as if he’d rather be anywhere than there. 

“I’m going after Bucky,” he says. 

Tony nods, ignoring the pit in his stomach.

“I’m taking Sam.”

“Okay.” Tony should have known. Of course, he wouldn’t go alone. Of course, he wouldn’t ask Tony. Who would?

Steve looks pained for a second like he doesn’t know what to say. 

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Are we done here, Cap?”

The slightly mocking nickname makes Steve’s eyes narrow, but instead of rising to the bait like he usually would, he took a deep breath. “There’s something I need you to do for me,” he says carefully, cautiously.

“Oh? And how shall I please my Captain this time?”

“Look, just… Can you do me a favor? Promise me to get it done?”

Tony’s starting to get a little worried now. “I–yes, yes I promise.”

“I need you to go to medical.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I know you’ve been throwing up every morning for two weeks, Tony.”

Tony presses his mouth into a thin line. “I haven’t. It was only those four times,” he says, lying straight through his teeth. “I ate something funny, old man. It’s not a big deal.”

Steve pins him with a look. “I know why,” he repeats. “Don’t lie to me.”

Tony huffs. “I’m not going to go.”

“Yes, you are. You promised.” There’s something pleading in his face, and Tony suddenly doesn’t have the heart to tell him promises stopped meaning anything to him a long time ago. 

“Why?” he challenges.

“God, Stark, just do the damn thing!” Steve yells, fury taking over his features. “You’ll know why, I promise, just _go_.”

With that, he sweeps out of the workshop, off to find his best friend.

-

Tony goes to medical. 

He sits on a bed with a crinkly white paper sheet and waits for a doctor to come in the room, studying the wall decor as he does. There’s a poster on the different diseases you can get from vegetables that haven’t been washed, and one on STDs and how to prevent them. 

Near the small sink there’s a plastic rack of shiny pamphlets, and next to the door are several yardsticks taped to the wall on top of each other for measuring height. Giraffes are painted on the ceiling, and stuffed fish hang from the ceiling, dangling on skinny pieces of fishline.

If he didn’t think that the other Avengers were actually children before, this definitely confirms it. If he ignores the STD poster he can almost imagine he’s in a pediatrics ward, about to be examined for the GI Joe arm he got stuck up his nose or something.

A smiling doctor comes into the room not two seconds later, his long black hair pulled back neatly into a braid. He walks up to Tony, the customary clipboard tucked under his elbow and offers his hand. 

Tony shakes it and appreciates the firm grip before leaning back against the wall, letting the doctor direct him through a basic check-up. He’s peering into Tony’s ears when he asks if there’s anything that’s been going on. 

Tony thinks about ignoring him and keeping silent, but he ultimately decides: _what the fuck, I’m already here anyway_.

He tells the doctor about his queasiness in the morning, and he gets a thoughtful hum in response. 

“Have you been sexually active recently?”

“Uh,” Tony clears his throat. “Yeah, um, maybe two months ago?”

The doctor frowns. “Are you feeling nauseous the whole day? Or only in the mornings?”

“All day, but I usually only lose it at breakfast.” A thought’s starting to tickle the back of his mind and he forces it away aggressively because no, it can’t be. 

The doctor goes to the cabinet and pulls out a thin cardboard box. “Can you go to the bathroom for me and take this?”

Tony stares at it dumbly. “A pregnancy test?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

Tony gets up, everything numb. “I’ll be right back,” he rasps.

He goes to the bathroom and takes the test. He goes back. He sits down. He hands the test to the doctor. He folds his hands neatly and waits for the doctor’s verdict. 

From the end of a long tunnel, he hears that the test is positive. He finds himself nodding, and lets the doctor direct him through new tests, this time to make sure he and his baby are healthy.

He doesn’t register the words.

“A what?” he finally blurts out, interrupting the doctor.

The doctor smiles at him faintly. “A baby. You’re going to have a baby.”

“No,” Tony tells him, the confidence in his voice wavering. “No, I’m not.”

The doctor gently, ever so gently, places a hand on his knee. “You are, and it’s going to be alright.”

Tony lists to the side and the other man catches him quickly, gently leaning him back against the wall. “You’re going to be fine,” he says soothingly. “I know you will, Mr. Stark. I just need you to be strong.”

The doctor keeps talking to him in a faintly patronizing voice and Tony falls silent, because what else can he say?

God, he has a _baby_. There’s another human inside of him. 

When the doctor lets him go he tries to go back to his room, wanting nothing more than to curl up and cry himself to sleep. 

He doesn’t make it. 

Instead, he barely enters the hallway leading out of the kitchen before sinks down to the floor and draws his legs up to his body. He wishes the room would stop spinning. 

He tugs his knees closer to his body and sucks in deep breaths, shutting his eyes slightly. He feels wave after wave of emotion rack his body, but he doesn’t know which ones they are. Instead, he hides his head in his bent knees and lets out a single sob, muffling it as best he can.

He’s pregnant. With Steve’s baby. Fear claws at his throat as he realizes what this means. He’s going to have a child and is going to have to take care of it. Painful memories of Howard mock him, and he curls up tighter with a sob. What he went through as a child should never happen to another. But what if he ends up like him? What if he’s no better?

At the moment he can’t even muster any anger for Steve, because it wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know he was impregnating Tony? He knows he should be furious that he kept the information that he was pregnant from him, knows that the reason he did was that he didn’t want to have to accept any responsibility with the child. Tony knows that. 

He knows he’s on his own with this one.

Nat, sweet beautiful Nat, finds him like this, twenty minutes later, and gently pries his fingers from where they’d sunk into his hair, pulling him close against her lithe body. She gently pets his hair as he turns his head and sobs into her stomach, murmuring to him in Russian.

When his cries have tapered off and he’s reduced to a hiccuping mess, she softly asks him what’s happened, in English. 

“I’m pregnant,” he tells her, voice scratchy from crying. He looks up at her, noting her pursed lips. “Did you know?” he asks softly.

“No,” she whispers after a moment’s hesitation. “I did have my suspicions,” she admits. Her eyes stray, and she seems to be thinking about something. “Who was it?” she asks, just as softly.

He’s exhausted, and all he wants is to go to his bed and sleep. He hides his face in her shoulder and thinks about it for a long time. “I don’t know,” he finally answers, a blatant lie to both their ears. She doesn’t call him on it, however, and just pulls him closer to her, wrapping her arms around her tighter. 

“If you’re sure,” she murmurs.

-

The first week since finding out is hell. Ordinarily, when something like this would happen he would drink himself to the point of unconsciousness, uncaring about the hangover he would likely have the next morning. This time, however, he can do no such thing without risking the health and safety of his baby.

Instead, he spends his nights hammering out mangled bits of metal, and he even has a routine. During the day, if there’s no mission, he goes down to the workshop and turns AC/DC on as loud as JARVIS will let him, before going to town with his sledgehammers. Then he eats a sandwich and refuses to think about Steve. After, he goes back to hammering before eating some sort of bland dinner and then hammers some more until midnight, when he passes out on the couch in his workshop. He has a huge stack of flat metal sheets in the corner, now. During days with a mission, Tony goes out with the team, plays Iron Man, and disappears to go sleep, exhausted, after their day. 

As for Natasha and him and where they stand with Tony’s new predicament, he made her agree not to tell anyone, and in return, she demanded that as soon as he started showing he had to stop being on active duty. He’d grumbled about it at first but ultimately accepted her terms. 

It’s the second week, however, that he finally breaks. This week marks the tenth week of his pregnancy, and something about the number and the fact that it’ll only be half a month before he starts showing gets to him.

After finally forcing himself to reinforce the stomach plating of his suit, he stares a little too longingly at his whiskey for his comfort. So he forces himself to leave the workshop, not sure where he’s going, but knows he needs to be _out_.

He ends up on Steve’s floor without meaning to, and he stares at the bedroom door for a long time. A wave of self-hatred crashes over him as he lets himself into the room, but he ignores it in favor of looking around. He’s feverish, twitchy, feels uncomfortable in his own skin. 

The room’s clean, well-organized. A little _too_ organized. It looks more like a guest’s room than the owner’s. There is no personalization anywhere, and at the present moment, Tony can’t find it within him to speculate about what this means about their current resident super soldier’s state of mind. 

He makes a beeline for the bed and pulls away the covers before flopping facedown, immediately feeling the frustrated tears build up behind his eyelashes. He breathes in deeply, hoping for the scent of Steve to be found in the sheets, but all he can smell is the scent of laundry detergent. At this, another sob wracks through his body, and he muffles it with the pillow, wishing more than anything else in the world that Steve was there in the bed with him, keeping him close and warm.

Oh, God. He went and fell hopelessly in love with this man, and now Steve was across the country, chasing his long-lost best friend, a man who’d been presumed dead for seventy years but still held a fonder place in Steve’s heart that Tony would ever have, if he had one at all. 

He really was in this alone. That much had been proven when Steve left _knowing his child was in Tony_. He fucking _left_. A new wave of tears are pressed into the sheets, and Tony shivers from the sheer amount of self-hatred. 

That’s another thing: hatred. There’s certainly no shortage of that. Steve hates him, he knows that now. It does make him wonder about the rest of the team, however. They use his technology, his food, his resources, his house, and maybe… that’s all he’s for?

He thinks maybe Natasha has some sort of affection for him, but maybe she’s just doing her spy thing and wrapping her around her little finger.

He cries himself to sleep that night, sheets fisted in his hands, breathing in deep breath after deep breath, trying valiantly to smell the man he loves among the sheets, knowing he never will. 

He’s not good enough.

-

“You’re starting to show,” comes Natasha’s soft voice behind him.

He freezes. Turns around slowly. Looks at her. Swallows heavily. There’s no one else in the room, but it’s with a great amount of hesitancy that he lifts his shirt and cautiously peers down at his stomach. 

Holy fuck. She’s right.

There’s a small bulge in his stomach now, his hard-won abs mostly disappearing with it. He rubs a hand slowly over it, and his breath hitches, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “Holy shit,” he chokes out. He looks at Natasha desperately. “I’m having a baby,” he chokes out. 

She nods sympathetically and walks over to gather him in her arms, stroking his hair as he shakes against her shoulder. She’s soft and warm, and Tony knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help but feel safe with her. 

“They’re going to be beautiful, Tony, I already know it,” she murmurs. 

That’s when it _truly_ hits him that he’s having a baby.

He lurches away from her and backs away slowly, panic clear in his eyes. She watches him go, face unreadable, and doesn’t go after him. He’s grateful; this is something he needs to take care of himself. 

He beats the familiar path down to his workshop at a dead sprint, barely managing to gasp out a “JARVIS, lockdown,” before collapsing to the floor and curling into the tightest ball he can. 

DUM-E whirs sadly and strokes his shoulder, and he can’t help but melt into the damned thing. Tony clutches at the cold metal that makes up his learning robot, trying to ground himself and quell down the panic that’s rising within him. 

“I’m having a baby, oh, God, I’m having a child.” He grabs on hard enough to DUM-E make his knuckles white and sucks in breaths. “A fucking _baby_ ,” he says, his voice cracking and lets a single sob slip out before he clamps his mouth shut against any more. He will _not_ keep breaking down like this. 

Alright, he knows what to do. Deep breaths, Stark, that’s it. Tony follows the directions in his head, hating himself as he pretends it’s Steve telling him this, keeping him sane. He forces himself to slow down his breathing and takes in the slowest lungfuls he possibly can, trying to let them out just as slowly. 

It works. Soon, his skin isn’t feverish and tears aren’t trying to force themselves out. The lump in his throat goes away and he laughs wetly, slipping a hand under his shirt to rub the small bump gently. 

He knows it won’t be long before Natasha kicks him off the team, but he can hardly think of that because he’s just got an idea. A wonderful, amazing, terrifying idea.

But first, he needs to figure out how the fuck he’s going to tell the team.

-

They’re all staring at him, and for the first time since he was six, Tony Stark is fidgeting. 

“Are you being serious right now?” Clint finally asks, voice thick with disbelief. Natasha jabs him sharply in the side with her elbow, making his mouth snap tightly shut. 

Tony glances at her thankfully before lifting his chin and looking the rest of them in the eye. 

“So that’s a new development, I guess,” Clint says instead of whatever he was going to say previously.

“I don’t know if it’s so new,” Bruce says, smiling slightly. “You’re, what? Fifteen weeks along?”

Tony smiles. “Thirteen. There’s not very much fat on my stomach,” he says, preening a bit. 

Clint rolls his eyes, but he looks pleased. “Congrats, man. You gonna go in to find out the gender?”

Tony falters. “I haven’t really thought that far,” he finally answers. He opens his mouth to say he is going to keep it a surprise, but snaps it shut as a wave of new fear sweeps through him. Yeah, maybe he’s done with surprises. “I’ll find out in three weeks,” he says instead. 

Clint nods and hooks his arm around Natasha’s shoulders, which she doesn’t shake off, interestingly enough. “Can I tell Phil?”

“Agent Agent’s fine, but I don’t know if I want it to get through to Fury too.”

“You got it.”

Bruce turns to Thor, who’s being uncharacteristically quiet. “What are you thinking?” he asks, and Tony doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his throat begins feeling uncomfortably tight. 

Thor studies him, a grin breaking across his face. “I offer my congratulations, Man of Iron, but I cannot but help and wonder who the father is?”

Tony forces any emotion from his face and tries to smile. “He’s not quite in the picture,” he says carefully. He makes the mistake of looking at Natasha and feels a dread curl in his stomach at her expression. Her mouth is slack with understanding, and she looks faintly nauseous. 

Tony’s sentiment exactly. 

Clint waves a hand. “Who cares about him? Just wait until Steve and Sam hear!”

Tony sneaks a glance at Natasha again. 

Oh, yeah, she knows. 

-

Tony has a new goal, and he’s already diving in. He doesn’t have much choice, after all. Yesterday, they got a message from Sam, who sounded exhausted, saying that they had found the Winter Soldier and were going to bring him back to the Tower in three weeks. Three weeks meant Tony would be more visible, and it would be more difficult to conceal the bump. Three weeks meant he would know the gender, and the thought that there was a tiny human in him would be more tangible than ever.

Three weeks is not a lot of time, and Tony plans to make himself busy enough that he’s not able to spend much time with any of them. His new pet project is a nursery. It’s his wonderful, awful, amazing idea, and he’s thrown himself into it headfirst. He’s going to transform the guest room on his floor, and although the thought of it is daunting, the rest of the Avengers seem all too pleased to help.

They start three days after their meeting and sit down to plan. 

“I like the idea of yellow and green,” Natasha muses. “I could paint a meadow on one of the walls with wildflowers?” 

Tony looks at her in surprise, along with the other three. “You paint?”

“I do many things you don’t know about,” she says vaguely, waving a hand around. 

“Ooh, what things?” Clint asks, sounding enthusiastic. 

She smirks at him but doesn’t answer. 

They continue, taking the color idea and running with it. Thor seems excited at the prospect of stuffed animals, and they offer the job to him, limiting him to buying seven, no bigger than his hand, which is already larger than Tony’s head. Thor pouts but accepts their terms with a defeated sigh. 

The next day they’re called on a mission, and Tony is very kindly but firmly denied his request to go out with them. He huffs but has fun building his own rocking chair, so it’s alright. Besides, this way they won’t find out about the projectiles he built in.

The next day they start painting. The paint had already been delivered in various hues of yellow and green, and Natasha has some sort of tiny can thing going on in different colors that Tony’s not going to question. 

Not even Clint complains about the plain sandwiches they have for lunch. Tony’s morning sickness is mostly over, but the horror of it is still fresh in their minds.

Tony by himself has to take breaks throughout the day, to stretch his aching his back, and the whole team watches in amusement when he forgets where he put his paintbrush after setting it down to talk to Bruce. He stumbles around looking for it as they laugh, cursing his pregnancy and “unreliable brain”. 

Well fuck them, too. 

He also has a looming doctor’s appointment for his fourth month, or right around the time Sam said he, Steve, and Bucky would return. To say he’s nervous is an understatement. He avoids thinking about it and instead puts his all into finishing the damn nursery, knowing it’s too early to be doing this, but he knows the alternative is him going insane. 

The last time he tried to just tough it out in his workshop without any clear goal he ended up sobbing on Steve’s bed and almost drinking.

Speaking of which.

He stands up and puts his screwdriver down; he’d been working on the crib and listening to music, enjoying the time alone. He goes down to the lab and pats DUM-E hello, before making his way to the liquor cabinet at the end of the workshop, next to a little hot water dispenser and coffee grounds. He has his priorities. 

He pours every last bottle down the drain, watching as it swirls and sloshes, the amber and clear liquids disappearing. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to watch, hating that it’s affecting him this way.

But, the baby.

-

One day, instead of going to work in the nursery he goes down to the workshop, putting it on lockdown and bracing himself for what he’s about to do. With everything going on, calling his two best friends in the whole world has completely slipped his mind. 

He’s scared that Pepper, in particular, will take it badly, because they’d never really rekindled their friendship after they broke up, even after all this time, but she deserves to know. 

The phone rings for a long time, and he wonders if Pepper will even pick up. To his immense relief she does, with a hesitant, “hello?”

“Hi, Pepper,” he breathes. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“You too,” she says, and he can almost hear her smiling over the phone. 

He clears his throat. “What’s going on in Malibu?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. The board’s driving me crazy, and our stocks are rising and falling with the tide, it seems, but we’re doing fine.”

“That’s nice,” Tony says, and he knows the next thing he should say is something along the lines of “I’m pregnant”, or at least “I have something to tell you”, but the words get strangled in his throat and they lapse into silence. 

“Tony, I’d like to think I know you very well, so don’t lie when I ask this question. What’s happened?” Pepper finally asks with a carefully controlled tone, as if she doesn’t want him to hear her worry. 

“God, I really messed up,” he says in a rush, and sits down heavily on the floor, his back pressed against the wall. 

“What’d you do? Did you piss off Steve again?”

He bursts into watery laughter at that. “That’s certainly one way to put it, yes.” He knows he’s flouncing on dangerous territory here, knows that once he tells her the news she’ll immediately connect it to Steve. But she deserves to know, and he trusts her not to act rashly. 

“Tony?”

“I’m pregnant, Pep,” he finally tells her, and holds his breath, waiting for her response. 

There’s silence, then: “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“You heard me,” he sighs. 

“Do you need me to come to New York? How far along are you? Do you need anything?”

She sounds a mix of excited and scared and apprehensive and worried, and it’s all for _him_. A small hole in his heart he didn’t know he had slowly stitched back up, and he ginned helplessly into the air, listening to her ramble on, asking how he’s doing and congratulating him. 

“I’m fine, Pepper, I’m fine,” he laughs. “Really, Nat’s been taking care of me and the rest of the team seems happy enough. You stay in California, I don’t want to make things difficult for you.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “This is a big thing, Tony, maybe I should be there.”

“There’s nothing you can do. I’m fifteen weeks along, I’ve just got to let it take its course. Unless you’re offering to get me laid? I haven’t had sex in _ages_ Pepper, I think I’m dying,” he whines, and she gives a startled laugh. 

“Haven’t changed then, I see,” she says fondly. “Oh! Make sure you call Rhodey. I’m sure he misses you.”

“I will, I will. I just wanted to tell you first.”

“Alright.” She breaks off into thoughtful silence for a few seconds, seemingly thinking over something. Her next words are soft. “Steve?” she all but whispers. 

Tony closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall with a quiet thump. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“Is he... involved?” she asks, but she already knows the answer even before Tony answers for her.

“He, uh,” he clears his throat. “He had an urgent mission he had to take care of, so he’s not here right now.”

“What kind of mission?” Pepper sounds skeptical. 

“Bucky Barnes was found. He’s going after him,” Tony says, and ignores the lump in his throat.

“And leaving you alone?” Pepper asks, anger creeping into her voice.

“Yeah, well, he would’ve done the same if he’d stayed. He knew before I did, you know.”

“How long before?”

“About a month and a half.”

“Son of a bitch,” Pepper swears, and the lump in his throat disappears with a sudden laugh. 

“Yeah, he is.”

They’re silent for a little longer.

“I miss you,” Pepper finally says. “Call me with updates? We’re still friends, you know.”

“Miss you too, and of course. I expect you to be in that hospital room with me in five months, holding my hand as I scream.”

She audibly shivers. “Can’t wait. Goodbye, Mr. Stark.”

He laughs. “Goodbye, Ms. Potts.”

After talking to Pepper, Rhodey seems more manageable, but it’s still with caution that he presses the tiny green button on his phone and lifts it to his ear. 

He answers on the last ring. “Tony! How are you doing? I’m sorry I don’t have long, but do you need something?”

Tony’s not ashamed to admit he gets a little choked up at hearing his oldest friend’s voice. “Platypus,” he breathes. “Oh, God, Rhodey I miss you so much.”

“Aw, I miss you too, Tony. I’ll visit as soon as I can, okay?”

Tony grins into his arms. “Okay,” he murmurs. 

“Tony? What’s going on?”

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

“Tony…”

He waits. 

“Alright, alright I promise. What happened?”

Tony takes a deep breath. “Rhodey, I’m pregnant.”

Pepper had needed a moment to process, but it seems Rhodey needs no such thing. “Are you kidding me? Jesus Christ, Tony.”

“No. No kidding. I’m fifteen weeks along.”

“Holy fuck.”

Tony laughs. He seems to be doing that a lot today, and the thought warms him on the inside. “Yeah, I know.”

“Who?” Rhodey asks bluntly.

Tony goes quiet. “Steve,” he says after a moment. “But he’s, uh, not in the picture.”

“What? Why not?” Rhodey demands. 

“He went to find the Winter Soldier. And I didn’t get pregnant on a bed with silk sheets and rose petals, Rhodey.”

“That motherfucker.”

Tony shrugs, even though he knows Rhodey can’t see him. “I provoked him,” he says, carefully keeping the emotion out of his voice. 

“Of course you did,” Rhodey says somewhat exasperatedly but with a heavy amount of affection. 

“Couldn’t help myself,” Tony agrees, grinning. 

“Bet you have wicked blue balls,” Rhodey says mischievously, the little shit. 

“Do I ever,” Tony groans. “You know, I’m glad you brought this up. Pepper didn’t want to listen to–”

“I miss you, Tony! I’ll visit you! Bye!” Rhodey all but yells and hangs up.

Tony sits back and grins, feeling like a weight’s been taken off his chest. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

-

The doctor declares everything fine, and Tony will take the feeling of sheer relief that swept through him to the fucking grave. He doesn’t know what he would have done at this point if everything wasn’t okay and he, God forbid, wouldn’t have been able to have the baby. 

No amount of pleading or force from the others would probably ever be able to drag him up from the bottom of a bottle, that’s for sure.

Still, he can’t dwell on it too long because they’re coming back in three days. Three. Days. 

He can’t sleep at night from nervousness, and when he does manage to close his eyes, he sleeps restlessly, tossing and turning. He’s also taken to rubbing his baby bump which now shows through most t-shirts, so he’s started wearing his baggiest ones, but even then it’s a little visible. 

His savior to that particular problem is Bruce, who notices the bump and how Tony keeps tugging at and adjusting his shirt. The very next day he gives him a stack of shirts, saying “these are getting a bit too small. Maybe you can donate them?” Tony had accepted the pile with a quick kiss on the cheek for Bruce, before going and changing. The shirts also had the added advantage of smelling familiar and comfortable and being very soft to provide as little irritation as possible for the Other Guy. Sometimes an itchy tag or coarse fabric on top of a bad day can be all it takes. 

Another thing he’s started doing in the week following his talks with Pepper and Rhodey is a lot of research. The nursery isn’t done yet, far from it, in fact, but it’s still a quiet and safe place where Tony can take his tablet or computer and sit against the wall, back straight to stop it from aching more than it already is. 

So far, he knows what to expect from every single week he has left, has been eyeing a few facebook groups, and has ordered brightly colored vitamins.

He also spends some time looking up baby names, but they’re quick, hurried searches as if he’s not allowed. The doctor told him the positioning of the baby when he went in for his fourth-month check-up made it impossible to tell the sex, and told him to come back in two weeks’ time. 

He likes old-fashioned names like Beth, Adaline, and Ren, but can’t help but feel a little like it’s another form of pining for Steve. Once that thought creeps into his head, as it inevitably does every time, he shuts down his computer with a sigh and goes to do another activity. 

His conversations with his friends, particularly the sex parts, have really spurred him on, and more than ever he was missing a proper fuck, not just a quick date with his right hand before bed. 

He sighs and twists, cracking his back quickly. 

There’s nothing to do for that, he supposes. 

-

The day is cloudy when they come back, having finally tracked down Bucky a week ago, and Tony’s standing with the others on the landing pad, heart beating faster than he thinks it ever has. One of his hands is clenched into a fist, and the other bunches up his shirt a little to conceal the bump, the side of his thumb pressing against it subtly, protectively, as if making sure it’s still there. 

He schools his smile into a press-ready one, fake but nice enough that nobody will call him out on it. Probably.

Sam comes out first looking exhausted, but still grinning at the rest of the team. Bucky follows hesitantly, eyes just as haunted as they were the last time Tony saw him. Still, he looks marginally better, and he’s regained a little color. 

Tony barely notices, however, because he only has eyes for Steve. 

Steve, who walks out with his posture as perfect as it always is, despite his messed up hair and the smudge of dirt high on his cheekbone, and the tear in his suit on the shoulder. Steve, who locks eyes with Tony immediately, gaze unreadable.

Tony forces his eyes to stay on Steve’s as the man stalks forward, ignoring the various clamors for his attention from the rest of his team. He gulps as Steve walks closer, eyes firm and hard on Tony’s, as if…

Steve comes to a halt barely half a foot away from Tony, and Tony opens his mouth to say something, anything, to get out of this uncomfortable situation because Steve is too close, _too close_ , and Tony doesn’t know what he wants, damnit. 

He can’t stop a small gasp from escaping when a large and calloused hand grabs his jaw and tilts it upwards, forcing Tony to stare helplessly into Steve’s blue eyes as he tilts his head, as if examining him. 

There’s something calculating in their depths, and Tony’s breath catches as Steve stares him down, and he cannot shake the notion that he is nothing more than personal entertainment for this man, nothing more than something funny and amusing, something to play with before eating.

“Cap?” Tony husks out. “What–”

Steve kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little late, but I'm still updating every Tuesday, just like I said I would. I hope you guys liked it! Kudos will be appreciated immensely and comments will be replied to, because I'm getting lonely at home :,(


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has no fucking clue about anything, Bucky rekindles and starts friendships, Tony works on a Cadillac, and a slice of cheesecake is featured!

Steve’s mouth is on his, his lips warm and gentle on Tony’s. The kiss isn’t quite passionate, and it isn’t chaste or loving either, but that delicious middle ground Tony wishes were all of his kisses were, just sort of sweet and demanding and Tony feels like he could _drown_.

Tony makes a noise of want and snakes his hands up between their bodies, tangling them in Steve’s shirt and tugging him closer. Steve’s warm, so warm, and Tony thinks he can stay wrapped up here forever, just soaking up the warmth that’s emitting from the man curled around him.

Steve’s hands are splayed at his back, running desperately up and down his sides, his fingertips catching lightly on the fabric of Tony’s shirt. His hands are strong and calloused from swinging his shield around, and _huge_. One hand finally settles on the small of his back, stabling Tony as the other curls around his head. The second hand completely covers the nape of Tony’s neck, cradling his head gently, and Tony tilts his head back, panting slightly, giving Steve access to his neck. 

Tony moans softly as Steve takes the opportunity to nip and suck lightly, his hot breath tickling Tony’s ear, before he surges up again to press his lips to Tony’s, like he couldn’t bear to leave them for long. Tony laughs a little helplessly at that thought, and Steve bites him gently in retaliation, tugging the skin between his teeth and pulling lightly.

Tony kisses him back enthusiastically, because yes, this feels right, this feels good, this is what he _wants_ , this is the man he loves–

He shoves Steve away as forcefully as he can, lurching backward, ripping himself from the warm and comforting hands at his back and neck... he shivers and firmly puts distance between them, forcing his breathing to even out. Steve stumbles back more out of surprise than Tony’s strength and stands there, hands limp at his sides, lips cherry red and glistening, shirt wrinkled and disheveled.

“ _No,_ ” Tony manages to grind out, still reeling from the kiss. “You don’t get to kiss me, Rogers. You fucking left me–” he bites down on the words “and your child” viciously, not ready to let the rest of the team know. He thinks Thor and Natasha might, but it’s clear Steve knows, and he’s all that really matters in the grand scheme of things. “Get the fuck away from me,” he spits, and Steve stares at him, chest heaving, pain and horror written clear across his face.

It’s not clear what the pain is for, but the reason for the horror is all too obvious: he deeply regrets what he just did and wishes he could take it back, and isn’t that just a warm and fuzzy feeling around Tony’s heart?

Steve swallows heavily and nods, not even bothering to pull a mask over his features as he casts his eyes towards the ground. The corners of his mouth tighten briefly and Tony thinks he’s going to look up and protest, maybe scream in Tony’s face or try to make out with him again, but he doesn’t. He walks away towards the tower, picking up his chin and staring straight ahead. 

Nobody speaks. Tony’s still heaving, standing in place, completely frozen, unsure of what just happened, and what he’s supposed to do. To his and everyone else’s surprise, Barnes is the one who makes the decision for him. 

“Are you Tony Stark?” he asks in a deep rumble, and Tony turns towards him, struggling to regain his composure. 

“Yeah, I mean, yes.” He swallows heavily and meets the eyes of the man who he was used to seeing with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes, who now just looks… lost. “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice only wobbling a little. 

“I heard you had a laboratory?”

“Uh, it’s more of a workshop, actually. Bruce has the laboratory,” Tony says, nodding over at the man in question, standing next to Clint. Bucky ignores the other scientist. 

“Can I see it?” he asks gruffly.

“Yeah, of course, although you’ve already been there…” Tony trails off and decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shuts up and leads the way to his workshop, ignoring the stunned faces around him. 

Clint’s jaw has full-on dropped, and Bruce is looking a little green around the gills, literally. Thor looks slightly disapproving, Sam is very, very confused, and Natasha is, as always, completely unreadable, but he thinks he doesn’t imagine the minuscule furrow of her eyebrows that means she’s calculating something. He’s not scared. He isn’t.

-

The workshop is quiet. Too quiet. 

Barnes pulls Tony’s own chair out for him to sit in numbly and leans against the wall himself, arms crossed over his chest. He looks the perfect imposing figure, muscles flexing slightly over his abdomen, dark hair framing his face. His mouth is drawn in a thin line, and his features are cold, unreadable.

_Bucky Barnes has forgotten how to be soft,_ Tony thinks. He wonders, then, why he can practically feel the worry and kindness pouring out of him in waves, if it’s absent from his features.

“You looked like you needed a break there,” Bucky says quietly, his eyes are full of light in comparison to the rest of his face, steely blues that pierce Tony’s, but not in a bad way. More like he’s trying to figure him out, like he’s curious. It’s not unlike the look Steve gave him before kissing him.

Tony nods, defeated. “Thank you.”

“Don’ mention it,” Barnes says, shrugging. 

Tony blinks once, twice. “You seem different,” he says at last. “Where’s the gun?”

Bucky snorts. “Sam took it. Said I couldn’ be trusted.” His face distorts for a second, giving Tony a brief glance of the layers and layers of pain and guilt he has hidden away from his time of the Winter Soldier before he manages control of his expression once again. He peers at Tony. “You alright?”

Tony valiantly grasps at his usual charm. “‘Course I am, sugarplum. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Bucky glares at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s very used to that sort of behavior. Tony thinks that he must have been quite the charmer back in the day.

Tony winks flirtatiously in response to the icy look, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Quit bein’ a menace,” he says, voice soft and full of Brooklyn.

Tony thinks he could never get tired of that voice.

“I’m always a menace,” he retorts, sniffing in mock disdain. 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches again. “Wonder how much of that’s goin’ to be passed to the young one,” he drawls, and Tony freezes.

“You know?” he croaks out.

“Figured,” Bucky says easily. At Tony’s surprised look, he elaborates: “You keep touchin’ your stomach an’ the sickness…”

“You knew before I did,” Tony says, laughing. They both ignore the slightly rueful undertone to the tinkling sound, and Bucky shrugs.

“Sarah was a nurse. Sometimes people’d come up to her door ‘bout ready to pop,” he tells Tony.

“Sarah…?”

“Sarah Rogers.”

“Ah,” Tony says, and looks down again, his face unreadable. Bucky feels like an ass, but knows apologizing for what he said will make things worse.

They go silent then, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence. They’re simply basking in each other’s presence, each in their own heads. They stay like that for a long time, and all Tony can think after a while is how fucking glad he is that Bucky is still alive.

-

Steve’s steps are too loud in the hallway as he puts one foot in front of the other and makes his way silently into the main compound, keeping his chin up and face stoic. The elevator is devoid of the usual mellow tunes JARVIS plays for its passengers, and the emptiness and quiet amplifies Steve’s breaths until they’re too loud in the stillness, and he can hear the raspy quality to them, can hear the unevenness.

He can’t stop running his tongue lightly over his lips, still slightly puffy from the kiss. His arms and hands are limp at his sides, hanging like an unmanned marionette's. They feel clumsy, stupid, where before they had purpose, they had reason, they were there to pull Tony closer, to curl around the smaller man and draw him to Steve, to cup the sharp line of that beautiful jaw and gaze into those soft brown eyes.

The gentle ping of his floor being reached is, in comparison, too soft, and Steve feels like it ought to be a louder sound, that it should fill more space. He can still hear his own labored breathing over the ding, can still hear his own thundering thoughts, thoughts that are running rampant like a herd of swiftly moving deer, of rampaging wildebeests, of… of… God, Steve doesn’t know. He’s not a damn zoologist.

He has half a mind, then, to put his fist through the elevator wall, to feel it give like butter under his knuckles as he takes out some of his frustration in a quick, easy swing. He gathers a deep breath, however, and curls his hands into fists instead, anchoring himself on the way his fingernails dig into his palms, creating small divots in the soft skin there.

Too bad they’ll heal as soon as he unclenches them. 

He exits the elevator in jerky steps, walking through his quarters, barely taking in the familiar sparse surroundings, and making a beeline for the bed. Instead of laying in it, he sits down and hunches over himself, cradling his head in his hands. 

God, what has he done?

Nothing has changed here, that’s obvious enough. Sure, Tony and the rest of the team now know of his pregnancy, but Steve already knew. For him, this isn't news at all. 

No, the only thing that changed was in Steve’s own head. Something twisted sharply and fixed itself or maybe tore apart in Steve’s brain, something that made him reel in Tony the first chance he got like a caught fish on a line. He isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not; all he knows is he couldn’t help himself when he saw Tony standing there, protective hand on his swollen belly, hair looking adorably soft and mussed from the morning winds, a slight air of apprehension around him that Steve knew wasn’t for the coming home of Sam or even Bucky, but for _him_.

He had felt protective in that moment, protective of the unborn child growing in a man he didn’t love, protective of an unborn child that wasn’t _his_. He gave up the baby as soon as he left, and he knows that now.

He’s sorry, so sorry, but it all comes back to the same thing: Tony Stark has been, and always will be, the one thing that can truly break Steve Roger’s resolve.

-

They–and by they, Bucky means Tony–put them on the same floor, and he appreciates the closeness. Right now, Steve is about the only person he feels safe with besides Tony, and he isn’t sure what he would do without him in this strange new world.

That still doesn’t stop him from being confused and wanting answers, dammit.

“What the fuck was that,” Bucky hisses to Steve, who’s folding up his uniform neatly with jerky movements, using a small white chalk pen to mark where repairs needed to be made, a habit he’d never dropped from years of Sarah stitching up the torn knees of his and Bucky’s pants.

Bucky’s surprised he remembers that. Then again, Sarah Rogers is a memorable woman.

“What was what?” Steve asks, not turning around as he painstakingly smooths out the wrinkles in one sleeve.

“You kissed him like you were drowning. Don’t play stupid with me, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn't acknowledge Bucky. “ _Answer me, damnit!_ ” Bucky growls at him.

Steve sets his jaw stubbornly but still refuses to turn around or otherwise speak to him. Bucky grabs his elbow and whips him around. “You’re not stupid, so quit acting like you are,” he hisses, fingers tangling in the fabric over Steve’s elbow, yanking him closer.

“I’m not acting like anything,” Steve hisses right back. “I don’t know what you want to hear, but clearly I can’t give it to you!” he says, his voice raising.

“Fuckin’ hell, Steve, I’m not asking for a damned soliloquy!”

“If I don’t know myself, how am I supposed to answer that?” Steve shoots back. “I don’t have a damned sentence for you!”

“Well find one, then,” Bucky roars. “The man’s _confused_. Not scared, or hurt, or betrayed, _confused_. What'd ya gotta do to a man to make him act like that after a kiss, huh?”

Steve grinds his teeth together and tries to turns away, but Bucky’s holding him fast.

“So there was somethin’, wasn’t there?” Bucky challenges. “Dammit, Stevie,” (the nickname comes out of nowhere but it feels so right, so familiar, that he doesn’t even try to take it back), “what happened to you two?”

“It was a mistake,” Steve finally growls. “Something happened, and it was a mistake, and if you think that for one moment I haven’t gone two days without regrettin’ it… Fuck, Bucky. I messed up so bad, you don’t even know.”

_“What did you do?”_ Bucky rumbles.

“I crossed a line,” Steve says miserably. “He just kept pushin’ me.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and releases Steve. It’s clear he won’t get a straight answer, and if he wants any chance of making up with Steve, he needs to quit shaking him now. But there remains a question unanswered.

“Are you in love with him?” Bucky demands, voice low and furious. He’s not sure how things escalated to this point, but here they are. 

Steve looks him straight in the eye, then, and for the first time since being reacquainted with his oldest friend, he finds himself feeling scared by the man. Steve’s gaze seems to pierce straight through him, as if he’s staring into his soul and Bucky’s eyes are nothing more than transparent pieces of glass in the way. He looks in control, however, and his voice is steady when he answers.

“No. I’m not in love with him. I never was.” Steve’s voice doesn’t waver a single bit, and Bucky can’t help but be grudgingly impressed.

Bucky knows he should leave it. He really should. It’s none of his business. However, there are still some questions he needs answered. “Then _why?_ ”

Steve looks away to the window, eyes thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. Bucky doesn’t push, because he can see it in Steve’s eyes: He really doesn’t know.

He thinks the sadness he feels for both of them is the strongest emotion he’s felt yet. 

-

Bucky flops down on the bed and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about his day. When he was more Winter Soldier than anyone else, he would have never confronted so many people so directly.

He already felt a little dirty from all the words he’d said to Tony, and then Steve. The Soldiers is screaming at him to just shut up and go curl in a corner, hold a loaded and cocked gun in front of him, and shoot anyone who tries to take him out of it. 

He shivers where he lays and forces himself to get up, going to the small bathroom to brush his teeth with terrible tasting mint toothpaste that makes his mouth burn, telling himself those feelings would abate, they had too. The things inside his head were _gone_ ; he had no reason to not get better.

He doesn’t sleep that night, instead staring at the ceiling and watching shadows flit across the white expanse from objects framed in the spotlights outside of the open window. He very carefully doesn’t think of anything, just lays there and tries to count the cracks in the ceiling.

Trouble is, there aren’t any. He isn’t in the 1930s anymore, in a rundown apartment building in Brooklyn, where the walls are thinner than paper and the spiders in abundance. There’s no Steve next to him to conserve body heat, no peeling wallpaper, no grimy window with a raggedy curtain that’s hanging from the rod by a thread.

He almost finds himself wishing he was.

-

Bucky makes up with Steve. He knows it wasn’t really his place to get in the middle anyway, and he apologizes for trying to get in the middle of it, and asks, shyly, if he and Steve want to maybe get dinner that evening, or visit their old stomping grounds. 

Bukcy says all of this in less than twenty words, which is still too many, but the beam Steve gives him in return is well worth the discomfort. He leaves the conversation feeling a little icky and a lot feverish, but he tells himself that if he hides he’ll forget about dinner, and a sad Steve Rogers is the last thing he needs.

Instead, he makes his way down to Tony’s workshop, only hesitating slightly before knocking on the door. It slides open with a sudden hiss, and Bucky jumps backward in alarm. After a second or two of nothing moving, he cautiously enters the workshop and cringes when music fills his ears.

It’s loud, screechingly so, and has the kind of violent rhythm that Bucky suspects its fans’ heartbeats have. He almost turns around then, wanting to escape the aggressive music, when he notices Tony over in the corner, bent over a faded green car, elbow-deep in its hood.

Bucky can see a little badge sticking up from the open hood, and he squints to try and see what it looks like, before lurching back in surprise. It’s a Cadillac, and the longer he stares at it the more a memory edges closer. He frowns and looks down, trying to tug it out in the open. 

He’s not completely sure, but he thinks he and Steve used to see them before and during the war, luxury cars that had a price tag higher than Bucky could count. Steve and him would always point out the rarely seen cars when they did catch a glimpse, nudging each other and grinning.

Bucky thinks he liked cars, back then.

He shakes his head and looks over at Tony, who still hasn’t noticed him. Which, as far as he’s concerned, is fine. He wanders over to a table in the middle, noting the lamp that Tony forgot to turn off, and the papers strewn across it. White and black pens are messily arranged in unwashed coffee mugs and countless blunt pencils litter the sketches on the table. 

Calculations are scrawled in the corners of most of the schematics, and Bucky is pleasantly surprised to see that he recognizes a few of them. Not enough to explain to someone how they worked, but perhaps enough to name the equations themselves.

One of the sketches looks a little different than the others, however. He can see the rounded edge of something drawn on the page poking out beneath another paper, and he tugs it out from underneath. It’s of the Captain America suit, and instead of calculations scribbled all over it like the other, blockier schematics, measurements and costs are written in dark columns down the sides. 

The music lowers in volume, but he still doesn’t notice the presence behind him until a hand lightly taps him on the shoulder. He grabs the hand and has it twisted behind Tony’s back and above his head, Tony’s face smashed against the table before he realizes what’s happening.

“Shit,” he curses, and lets go of the hand as if burned, backing up so fast he clips his hip on the far edge of the table. “Fuck,” he says, now rubbing his sore hip ruefully.

Tony’s just laughing, rubbing his hand in the other. “Don’t worry about it,” he grins. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” He nods towards the table. “What were you looking at?”

Bucky wordlessly lays a finger on the drawing of the suit, tracing the curve of the thigh.

Tony’s answering grin is wry and his voice is self-deprecating when he says, “That’s the newest model. What do you think?”

Bucky approves, and not just because it’s something affiliated with Steve, but because he’s seen, up close and personal, the old Captain America uniform from the forties, and this is a hell of an improvement. He licks his lips and shifts his eyes to Tony’s.

“I think it’s a definite improvement to the monkey suit he wore in the war,” Bucky rasps, and Tony grins widely. His hair is sticking up, and his smile is manic, but Bucky feels a sense of camaraderie with him, one he doesn’t feel with Sam or even Steve, in a way. 

“Me too. If it wasn’t in the Smithsonian, I’d burn it. That old rag needed to go.”

Bucky manages to crack a smile at that. “Stevie never liked it either,” he says and watches in silent dismay as Tony’s face shutters down at the mention of Steve.

“He doesn’t like a lot of things,” Tony mutters, rubbing his stomach almost unconsciously. He clears his throat and looks back at Bucky. “You like cars that go boom, Terminator?” he asks and the corner of his mouth twitches slightly like he’s just said something funny.

“I think so,” Bucky replies, honestly, answering the question even if the phrasing is a bit weird. He chooses not to acknowledge the second part of the question because while he has no idea what or who Terminator is, he trusts Tony at least enough to know he’s probably not making fun.

Tony quirks an eyebrow. “You want to give me a hand fixing the old girl?”

Bucky nods and follows Tony back over to the car, where the hood is still up. “We used to see these sometimes,” he says, then: “Cadillacs,” as if Tony needed clarification on what he meant. 

“Beautiful cars,” Tony says lightly, but doesn’t ask further, and Bucky breathes a quiet sigh of relief and appreciation. The man is surprisingly observant, Bucky is starting to realize.

He listens intently for the next few hours as Tony guides him through helping him fix it, and to both their surprise, they find out he’s actually quite handy. Tony never turns the music up to its previous volume, and even gives him the option to choose some songs, which he politely refuses, actually finding himself enjoying the music more as time went on. It grows on you, he supposes.

They’re having a nice time, working quietly together in the bowels of the Cadillac, before JARVIS gently reminds him of his dinner with Steve.

Bucky leaps to his feet so fast he almost bangs his head on the car, and he tries to avoid looking Tony in the eyes as he stutters out that he needs to go. He manages to squeeze out a few disconnected words, trying to break the news gently, which is stupid because he’s maybe the least gentle person and he knows Tony will see right through it.

Tony smiles slightly at him and takes pity. “Hey, Barnes, it’s fine. Look, I get it. Just because I’m not in love with him–” _(lies, all lies, Stark)_ “–doesn’t mean you aren’t. Go have fun. He’s your best friend.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Bucky grumbles immediately, but suddenly finds it even harder to look the man in the eyes, and wow, isn’t that something he needs to investigate… never.

Tony smiles at him, but it’s forced. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he offers, and Bucky hesitates but nods, mustering up enough courage to offer him a small smile in return. The idea that he could have this sort of companionable quiet activity with someone else where the end goal is not someone’s death is appealing to him, and he can tell that this will be what he’ll be falling back on if his dinner with Steve goes bad. 

It’ll be what he’ll use to remind himself that everything’s going to be fine tomorrow.

-

Seemingly overnight, new clothes appear in Bucky’s wardrobe. Most of his clothes have disappeared; the only piece remaining is his black leather jacket. Now he has stacks of shirts in tasteful colors and another coat, a stormy blue one that probably matches his eyes, a pile of trousers and jeans, a small stack of soft-looking pull-overs, and a pair of comfortable-looking combat boots. He closes his drawer with a snap, feeling overwhelmed. 

He decides to take a shower instead of dressing immediately, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as the warm spray hits his skin. He washes his body first, before looking down in confusion at two bottles in the corner. He bends down and picks them up, frowning at the cartoon oranges decorating one white bottle, and the green limes decorating the other.

He opens one and gives it a sniff, his eyebrows shooting up at the pleasant smell. It smells like sweet citrusy oranges, and he looks up at the ceiling when he asks tentatively, “What do these do?”

At first, nothing happens, and Bucky thinks Tony was wrong when he said his British robot person was in every room, but soon JARVIS’s indifferent voice floats quietly through the room, barely louder than Bucky’s words but still quite clear even with the water. 

“Shampoo and conditioner, Mr. Barnes.”

“Uh…” He feels like this is something glaringly obvious, like he should clearly know what these are. They had hair lotions and soaps during the war, he’s almost positive they did, so why can’t he remember them now? He can feel a lump of frustration clawing at his throat and he has half a mind to fling them at the ground and stomp on them until they break, but just before he does he takes a deep breath and stops himself. That won’t help anything, dammit, and he knows this.

JARVIS gently guides Bucky through scrubbing his hair and scalp with the shampoo, before rinsing it out, telling him to put the conditioner in only the ends of his hair and let it set in while he washes something else. 

Bucky takes the opportunity to wash his nether regions and back, before washing it out as JARVIS told him to do. After, his hair feels smoother, somehow, more creamy, but then again, the last shower he had was a hurried one in the quinjet, and the one two months ago in Tony’s workshop. 

After he towels himself off, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to open his drawers once more, this time one at a time instead of all at once. He starts with a shirt, and pulls a plain gray one over his head, wincing uncomfortably when it fits a shade too snug over his chest. He pulls on his familiar black jacket and grabs a pair of plain jeans. 

He even finds a small box with multiple pairs of gloves, and his heart swells with the simple thoughtfulness of such a gift. He tugs on some black ones, hiding his metal arm from prying eyes.

By the time his boots are laced and it’s almost time to meet Steve, Bucky’s hair is dry enough to pull back, but he leaves it hanging. One of the most important lessons he learned from the Winter Soldier was that sometimes a little hair hanging over your face could conceal your identity completely, or at least make you seem nondescript and forgettable.

He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror before he tramps down to the entrance where he’s meeting Steve, secretly pleased with the soft boots, because he genuinely doesn’t care. He figures that as long as his arm is covered and he’s comfortable, he’ll be fine.

Steve’s already there, facing away from him when he finally goes outside. The day is slightly colder than it’s been so far, but he doesn’t shiver, not even when a sudden breeze sweeps beneath their coats as Steve does. Super soldiers run hot, he knows, so it wasn’t for show. Steve really is cold. 

“Do you want to get another jacket?” he asks and immediately notes how Steve visibly forces himself to flinch.

He manages it, however, and turns around smiling. “Buck,” he breathes. “You look great!”

Bucky nods uncomfortably, unsure of what to say in response. Probably thank you, but then he would seem like he was expecting the compliment. He settles instead for muttering, “You do, too.” He does, in a blue shirt that seems painted on and a worn brown jacket, and tight jeans that hug his hips. 

_All the girls and gays must be tripping over themselves,_ he thought. _I know I am_. And… shit. Where the fuck did that come from?

Steve beams at that, and starts walking off. “You coming with?” he calls over his shoulder, and Bucky can’t help but grin down at himself, because this is the Steve Rogers he’s starting to remember. 

He hurries to catch up with Steve’s long stride and falls in step beside him. He doesn’t ask where they’re going, and Steve doesn’t tell him. They walk in comfortable silence, their elbows brushing lightly as they go, hands tucked in their coats. They stop at a small Italian place and Steve looks at him sheepishly, asking if he can order for Bucky.

Bucky nods. He knew the old Bucky Barnes loved Italian; one of the few clear memories he had were of him eating maccheroni with the Howlies, Steve a warm presence at his side as he scarfed down his meal. Was it watery? Yes. Was it greasy? Yes. Was it the same thing they’d eaten for four days straight? Yes. But did it remind Bucky of the small Sicilian place on the corner of their block, that was run by a sweet old lady who would always sneak them cannolis? Also yes.

While Steve orders and waits for their food inside, Bucky can feel some curious stares poking in to him like hot needles. Of course, they were curious, he was just seen with Captain America, but he wishes they wouldn’t be so obvious. He edges closer to the front wall of the establishment, leaning against it, and shakes his hair loose from where it’s tucked behind his ears to sweep across his face, hiding his features.

He wishes Steve was out already. 

With that thought comes another memory, so quickly that Bucky nearly stumbles, even leaning against a wall as he is. 

_“Why don’t you just do it, Stevie?”_

_Steve rounds on him, looking furious and imposing in his new post-serum body. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Buck?”_

_“You know what I’m talkin’ about, punk!” Bucky yells back._

_“I’ll get dishonourably discharged for this,” Steve tells him seriously._

_“But just think,” Bucky pleads, and he’s not sure why he, of all people, feels so strongly about this. “If Captain America’s a fairy, then who’s the country to judge? You could change people’s lives, Stevie.”_

_Steve rakes a hand through his hair. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” he says, and his voice breaks. “I can’t do it.”_

Bucky then had associated the memory with pain and betrayal, because for the first time he’d truly seen Steve as a coward. The whole situation had also been extremely ironic because Steve had never been weak in his old body. He had thought, at the time, that Steve in his old body would somehow have been more strong, would have said yes to Bucky’s pleading. He knows better, now. He knows it wouldn’t have mattered if Steve was eight or two feet tall, he still would have said no. 

Bucky now can appreciate what an ass he was that night, how demanding and prissy he had been. He knew Steve was tired of hiding, too. Knew that he would have done anything to change laws and make it acceptable, but that was before. Then the war happened, and then Captain America, and suddenly Steve’s body matched his mind and spirit, and he had a reputation to uphold. Captain America couldn't be bisexual. It just wasn’t done. 

Bucky got that now, he got what he hadn’t then. He scrubs a hand over his face. God, he had been such an ass.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, a white paper bag wrapped in both arms. “Are you doing alright?”

Bucky ignores the stares around him as he says, “I have something to apologize for.” Because he does. It’s important for Steve to know this, for some reason. Feels as important now as it did then. 

“Okay…” Steve says slowly. “Why don’t we wait until we’re sitting down to talk?”

Bucky nods, relieved that Steve’s going along with it. “Got someplace in mind?”

“Sort of,” Steve says. He leads Bucky down streets, weaving between people with an ease and confidence Bucky used to have. Not anymore.

They must have walked a mile and a half before Steve ducks into an alley and stops before a worn looking door with a rusty handle. He tucks the food bag under his arm and fishes, single-handedly, through his pockets for a key that he takes out and shakes a bit to untangle it from a loose thread in his shirt. 

He fiddles with the little key before finally pushing it in and twisting it, pushing open the door with a quick swing. Behind the door is nothing but black, black, black. It looks haunted and mysterious as if something’s lurking through the entrance, waiting to eat them. 

Bucky can also see several cobwebs dusting the interior and choking the walls, and he forces his heart rate to slow down. Bucky was afraid of spiders of then, and apparently he still was. It seems there are some things that can’t be cured by seventy years of brainwashing. 

Steve nods his head, gesturing for Bucky to follow him, before going through the doorway and stepping to the side, allowing Bucky to go first as he locks the door. Bucky isn’t quite sure what to do so he just keeps going forwards, completely blind.

The little passageway smells damp and sinister, and Bucky forces himself not to think about it too hard. The situation is almost a little too similar to the attics he found himself hiding in as the Winter Soldier, waiting for his mark to make a move… any move...

“There should be some steps comin’ up,” Steve says behind him, a warm and comforting presence at his back. Bucky forces his shoulders to relax and nods, even though he knows Steve can’t see him. 

He stumbles slightly when he reaches the first step, but Steve’s hand settles between his shoulder blades, steadying him, and he’s able to pick his way up the stone flight with no further problems. There’s another small hall at the top of the stairs, and, once again, Bucky stumbles from the change in evenness. Steve grabs his shoulder to keep from falling forwards this time, and Bucky mumbles a “thank you” as he's righted by the strong hand. 

“And the door is…” Steve removes the hand and reaches around him, searching out the end. His palm thuds dully against the wall. “Here we go.”

Steve edges around Bucky and pushes it open, revealing the sudden bright light of the streetlamps and car headlights. The sky is significantly darker than they left it, however, so it’s not horrible, but Bucky still spends the next few seconds blinking spots out of his eyes. 

Steve’s already climbing up a rickety fire escape on the side of a building, and Bucky hurries to catch up. Maybe three stories later, they finally reach the roof. 

“Woah,” Bucky breathes. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling softly. “I know.”

On top of the roof is a little garden, lit up by twinkling lights. Pots and beds of flowers, herbs, and vegetables take up almost all of the space, leaving only a small center where a couple of yoga mats are bolted down. Steve picks his way over there and sits down, placing the bag in his lap and rooting through it, pulling out containers.

Bucky sits gingerly across from him and looks around him while he waits for Steve to sort out the food. There’s a large pot of lavender a few feet away, and he can clearly smell it floating on the breeze, tickling his nose. 

Steve’s mother used to put a small pillow filled with dried sprigs of the stuff on Steve’s forehead when he was sick, Bucky remembers. He also remembers how’d he sit at his best friend’s bedside and rub his hand or fluff his pillows, and complain about the stench of Vicks VapoRub, tea, and, of course, lavender. When he did that, Steve would usually swat at him weakly, and tell him he’d feel bad about it if he died.

To that, Bucky would always lapse into silence, because it really wasn’t funny, and they both knew it. Sometimes Bucky would think that a single gust of strong wind would blow Steve away with how small and frail he was. On days that Steve was sick (which occurred more often than not), Bucky would sleep on a ratty mattress Sarah Rogers would set up and leave Steve only for school. Even then he’d rush home, fear in his heart, knowing Steve was too stubborn to die but feeling worried anyway. 

Here in the garden, the faint scent of lavender filling his nose and the quieted sounds of the rushing city below, Bucky can remember the crushing relief of finding Steve just as he left him, half-propped on pillows with a cup full of of yellow tea on his side table. 

It’s curious, he thinks, how much love he used to hold for the older boy who became a man, and how much of it he’s starting to repair. This is somewhat of a revelation to him because quite honestly, Bucky had expected love to be a thing of the past after the Winter Soldier. Not necessarily because no one would love him, but because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to love anyone back. 

And… yeah. That’s enough thinking about Steve for today. 

Except it suddenly isn’t because Steve has the food laid out and is looking at him with an anticipatory expression. “Lost you for a second there, Buck,” he says, the nickname falling from between his lips as easy as you please.

“I got another memory back,” Bucky says carefully.

Steve beams. “What of?” he asks. 

Bucky rolls the words over in his mouth before he spits them out. “We were pretty close,” he finally says. What he actually meant to say was “I was in love with you”, but luckily, he managed to squash it before it came out.

Steve narrows his eyes but doesn’t deny it. “Exactly what memory are we talking about?” he asks, and Bucky can’t help but notice that there’s no “Buck” tacked onto the end of it.

Bucky coughs, awkwardly. “I just remembered all those times you’d be sick and stayed home.”

Steve laughs, his whole demeanor suddenly changing. “That did seem to happen a lot, didn’t it?”

Bucky nods, slowly. He tries to stop his mouth from opening and spilling out the words resting on his tongue, but they do, anyway. “I remembered how scared I’d be coming home every day, wondering if you’d finally coughed up that lung,” he says, staring down at his food instead of at the all too understanding eyes of Steve Rogers.

“Yeah, you and my mother,” Steve replies thoughtfully, lifting a forkful of pasta to his mouth. 

They’re silent for a little while, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter or small talk, or even casual conversation. They’re just enjoying one another’s company and their food, and the peaceful bit of heaven that is this garden. Bucky still has no idea how Steve found it, but he isn’t going to ask. 

“What did you want to apologize for?” Steve asks, breaking the silence with his curiosity. They come out muffled from behind the napkin he’s using to wipe his mouth with, but his words are still quite clear.

Bucky takes a minute to answer, chewing a mouthful of food thoughtfully, and Steve lets him, trusting him to eventually spit it out. “I remembered something else,” he says at last. “Earlier.”

Steve looks up at him through his eyelashes. “What’d you remember?”

Bucky swallows heavily and sets his food carefully down. “We were fighting.”

Steve cracks a smile. “About what?”

“Captain America coming out,” Bucky says and holds Steve’s eyes with his own. 

Steve’s lips are now a thin line of bitterness. He breaks eye contact and looks away. “How much do you remember from that night?” he finally asks. Bucky isn’t surprised that Steve immediately knows which night he’s talking about. The thought makes his stomach sink further.

“Not much,” Bucky admits. “I just remember trying to convince you to tell people you liked men. Think I was tired of hiding.”

Steve smiles ruefully. “Me too.”

Bucky pokes uncomfortably at his food with his fork, knowing this is the moment to do it. “I, uh, I’m sorry for pushing you. That night, I mean.”

“It’s fine–” Steve starts to say, but Bucky talks over him, not finished. 

“I don’t remember much about the whole thing, just the words, you know,” Bucky says quickly, stumbling over his sentences. “And, and I think I was in love with you, but that didn’t make it right for me to say that. I don’t know if we were together, and, you know, even if we were, I’m still so sorry.” Bucky clamps his mouth shut, horrified by what just came out of his mouth. 

Steve’s looking at him again, eyes narrowed, almost as if he was searching for something. He doesn’t say anything, and Bucky grows confused and a little desperate. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I just thought you knew–”

“I knew you were in love with me,” Steve interrupts, and goes back to his food. “I was, too,” he says and looks at Bucky, eyes twinkling. “Apology accepted.”

“Good,” Bucky forces out, barely remembering at the last minute to say it, so preoccupied with Steve saying _I was, too._ Steve was in love with him, too. Would you look at that? 

He does notice that Steve carefully avoided saying anything about whether they were together or not, and decides not to ask further. 

He’s instigated enough conversations, he thinks. 

“So,” Steve says lightly. “What do you think about the Tower?”

Just like that, the ice is broken and Bucky feels a smile stretch across his face. “I think it’s the ugliest fuckin’ building I’ve ever seen,” he tells Steve.

Steve throws his head back and laughs, and Bucky can’t help but watch him. He doesn’t laugh, himself, he can’t, but he also can’t help the way his eyes trace the column of Steve’s throat, the immaculate jawline. _Epitome of human perfection, indeed,_ he thinks. 

“It grows on you,” Steve finally says, smiling widely. 

“I’m sure,” Bucky snorts. “I imagine you get used to it right after you get used to Tony’s fancy science talk jumpin’ all over the place.”

Steve’s smile falters, and too late Bucky realizes he shouldn’t have said that. Open mouth, insert foot. It would certainly be a better thing to have in his mouth than the words he just uttered. 

The silence is awkward now, and Bucky doesn’t know how to fix it. He clears his throat. 

Steve smiles at him, a grin that’s a little too crooked, a little too bittersweet. “Want to go get cheesecake? I know a place that’s open until midnight.”

Bucky nods, because Steve’s offering him a way out, and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Never mind that he hasn’t the foggiest what a “cheese cake” is. It sounds disgusting, quite frankly, but he trusts Steve. 

He also thinks it’s another gap in his memory, something else he should know about but just can’t remember, and after the whole thing in the shower, he decides to not pursue that train of thought and chooses instead to follow Steve silently, obediently.

He was right to trust Steve. Bucky positively licks his plate clean before sucking each of his fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes in bliss as he savors it, completely oblivious to the burning gaze drilling into him from across the sticky red table, Steve’s slice forgotten.

He remembers cheesecake now. He remembers how Barbara Allen wouldn’t let a single soul forget that her mother got her _“a whole one, wouldn’t you believe it?”_ for her fifteenth birthday, and he remembers how he and Steve used to mock her behind her back, sick with jealousy that _their_ mothers couldn’t afford it. 

The thought is bitter, but it makes this slice of thick cream cheese and sweet caramel all the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new update on Tuesdays!  
> if you comment I'll likely respond, so feel free to ask questions, give suggestions, make requests, or give constructive criticism <3  
> also thank you to everyone whos left kudos, commented, etc. I love you!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky sleeps with Tony then gets his arm looked at. That's it. I'm sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still invested in this fic and have been following it week to week, I just wanted to say that when I see your name in my emails either because you've commented or left kudos, I do recognize your user, and I get a really fuzzy feeling! Thank you thank you please know that any gratitude you show for my measly little fic is completely returned :)
> 
> I luv u guys <3

Tony grumbles as he wakes up to the droning sound of JARVIS’ telling him to go to the kitchen for breakfast. He grumbles at his ceiling blearily and pushes himself up into a sitting position, cursing the hard couch. He should’ve known better than to sleep there. 

His back hurts something fierce, but he ignores it, instead staggering into the elevator and leaning against the railing, already thinking of the two steaming mugs of coffee he’s going to drink. The doors open with a soft ding and he steps out, dimly noticing the rest of the team staring at him expectantly while he crosses the room, intent on getting his caffeine.

Once he’s finished one cup he feels better, so he refills his mug and turns around to face them, holding it close to his body and warming up his hands. A quick head count reveals they’re all here except for Steve and Bucky, who could be God knows where.

“Can I help you?” he asks innocently, blinking up at them.

Natasha scowls at him, but it’s Clint who has the first word. “Dude, what the fuck,” he says eloquently, and with feeling.

Tony raises his eyebrows. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he says lightly. 

“Steve kissed you…” Sam says, and he looks slightly bemused. 

Tony snorts. “I’m surprised it took you guys this long to confront me about it,” he confesses.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Aww, Brucie, don’t get all soft on me now. I’m perfectly fine, see?” he does a little twirl, mindful of the hot cup of liquid in his hand, to demonstrate the fact. “I’m always okay.”

“You didn’t look okay,” Natasha says, and Tony gives her a warning glare.

“I assure you, I was fine, okay?”

“And that’s why you’ve been avoiding him,” Sam says, nonplussed.

“I haven’t been _avoiding_ him, we just haven’t crossed paths,” he tells them indignantly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my humble abode.” He turns away from them and their ridiculous prying, refilling his cup one last time.

“I think you should talk to him,” Sam calls out behind him.

“And say what?” Tony asks sarcastically, turning back around.

Sam bites his lip but doesn’t answer. Tony snorts and walks out, taking a sip of his coffee.

-

“Need a sleep partner?” Bucky asks, flicking a hand to get JARVIS to turn down the music so Tony can hear him. 

They’re in Tony’s lab, and for the last few hours, he’s been tinkering with a motorcycle engine, taking it apart and putting it back together again rhythmically. Tony says that once he can do it with his eyes closed he’ll make him a motorcycle, with custom features. Bucky wants a motorcycle, especially one from Tony because it’s bound to have all sorts of cool gadgets and things it can do.

For the last few minutes, however, he’s been watching Tony. Tony, whose hands are moving slower than usual, whose eyes are so sunken in and practically dripping with purple bags, who keeps shifting half-heartedly every couple of minutes, as if his back was in pain. 

It probably is. Tony had been complaining a lot about it, and when Bucky asked him about it, he muttered, “baby” and went back to his work. With the position he’s in right now, slouched over with a curved back, weighed down by his ever-growing belly, it can’t be comfortable.

He looks like he just needs some sleep. But, he knows better than anyone that this can be difficult. Hence, the question he just asked.

Tony looks up, startled. “A what?” he asks wearily.

“I’ll curl up with you while you sleep.” He tilts his head. “You look like you need someone.”

“Just… just for sleeping, tonight?” he asks hesitantly, because oh God, yes, that sounds _lovely_ , and he doesn’t care how pathetic that is. 

Bucky nods.

Tony swallows, blinks back sudden tears. Damn hormones. “Yes, please,” he says in a small voice, and Bucky nods and pushes himself up off the floor, leaving the partly disassembled engine on the floor.

“Take your shirt off, it’ll feel better,” he says gruffly, but makes no move to remove his own.

Tony reaches a hand up to his stomach, suddenly self-conscious. “I–that’s alright, really, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He doesn’t want Bucky to see his scars.

Bucky nods easily as if that was what he was expecting him to say. He ushers Tony to the couch and lays down, caging Tony in his arms when he squeezes in next to him. He carefully avoids touching the baby bump, unsure of how Tony would take to that.

Once they’re both situated, Tony still tense and uptight in the warm arms around him, Bucky tucks his head in Tony’s neck, and tells him, “Just relax. You ain’t any help to anybody all strung like this.”

Tony takes a deep breath and suddenly goes limp in Bucky’s arms, and Bucky instinctually tightens his hold on the smaller man. 

Tony’s breathing evens out after a few minutes, and his heartbeat slows, but Bucky doesn’t fall asleep. He’s been struck with the thought that this is the first time he’s truly let someone into his personal space that wasn’t from necessary contact, such as the holding down Sam and Steve had to do.

It occurs to him that the man in his arms is very, very fragile, and right now very, very vulnerable. it would be all too easy to snap his neck, suffocate him… A firm punch to the stomach could even result in a miscarriage…

Bucky sucks in deep breaths, trying to stave off nausea rising in his gut. It would not be a good idea to throw up on Tony. 

Besides, he’s not that person anymore. Bucky refuses to be the Winter Soldier. He can still feel him peeking over his shoulder, providing a sinister voice of reason that insists killing people will solve everything, but he’s come too far to listen to that voice or, God forbid, let it take over. 

He tightens his hold on Tony and relaxes against him, tucking Tony’s head neatly under his chin and burying his face in soft black hair. He wonders if having someone to fight for would help him, ground him. Steve is too big, he can take care of himself, and Bucky knows he would catch on to what Bucky was trying to do at the drop of a hat, and probably not very kindly, at that.

But Tony… Bucky knows he can take care of himself, too, but it would make him feel so much better just to have someone to look out for, to have someone who Bucky uses to remind himself that he can never revert to the Winter Soldier. And if Tony resists, which he no doubt will, Bucky can tell him he’s doing it for the baby. 

Oh, God, the baby.

Another lick of fear and dread curls in his stomach and Bucky forces his heart rate to slow down, taking in and letting out deep breaths. In, and out. In, and out. That’s it. 

What in the world is he going to do with a baby? A tiny human that is so fragile, even more fragile than the man in his arms, and one mistake could end the baby’s life. He’s not strong enough for this, damnit. But he has to be. He just has to be. He shuts his eyes tightly and clings to Tony like a drowning man does desperately to his last breath of fresh air, and stays like that until Tony wakes three hours later.

-

His arm is killing him. 

Over the last week, something seems to have shifted in his metal arm, leaving his shoulder in near-constant excruciating pain. 

He’s woken up several times in the middle night, silent tears making his cheeks damp as he clutches at his shoulder desperately, trying to alleviate the fire working its way through it.

He thinks that Steve notices, but he also knows that his best friend respects Bucky enough to know that he’ll tell Steve when he’s ready.

He’s at breakfast one day, however, when Steve finally brings attention to it. He’s been doing his very best to keep his pain hidden by forcing himself not to flinch when he moves it, and using his right hand for everything he possibly can. 

This particular morning, Steve and Bucky are having pancakes with condensed milk, a surprisingly good combination. Bucky reaches for the little cup with his left hand without thinking about it, flinching violently when it puts too much strain on his shoulder and sends a twinge of pain that reaches up to his collarbone.

This upsets the cup and its contents, sending creamy liquid spilling across the table and ruining the newspaper Steve had flattened out on the table to read. Steve jumps as Bucky yells, “fuck!”

Steve looks at him with alarm as Bucky clutches his metal arm to him, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, reaching a hand out as if to touch him, but stops the motion halfway so it’s just awkwardly hanging in the air. “Bucky?”

Bucky gasps and shakes his head, bowing his head and fighting the warmth building behind his eyes, warmth that threatens to turn into boiling tears. “I’ll–I’ll be fine,” he manages to rasp. 

“Is it the arm?” Steve asks, sounding concerned. “Shit. Okay. Up you get.”

He scoops Bucky to him, cradling him against his chest and avoiding the metal arm. Bucky’s shoulder rests firmly in Steve’s elbow and the small bit of pressure takes the weight of the metal arm off slightly, and he sighs with relief.

Steve looks down at him briefly, but keeps moving, walking him towards some mysterious location with hurried steps. Bucky’s head rolls back into Steve’s elbow and he groans at a new twinge of pain.

“I got you,” Steve murmurs worriedly. “We’re gonna get you to Tony, okay?”

Bucky can barely nod, fighting not to let his eyes roll back into his head with unconsciousness. Never in his life has he felt pain this extreme, even when Hydra cut open his back to put in the metal framing for the arm, or when he got shot four times as a punishment for failing to kill a mark. It feels like liquid pain is being fed into the rest of his body from the arm, and it _hurts so damn bad_.

He’s been trained not to let the pain show, to withstand obscene amounts of it, but this is too much. It’s all-consuming, and as fire takes over his vision he’s convinced for a hysterical second that this is what is going to be that kills him. 

“Tony,” Steve pants, winded from sprinting the flights of stairs and lengths of hallways to get to the workshop. “JARVIS, tell him to let us in. It’s an emergency.”

“Of course, sir,” the smooth British voice answers him, and a few seconds later Bucky hears the hiss of a door opening, admitting the super soldiers to the workshop. 

“Steve? What the fuck?” Tony sounds confused, and a little pissed.

“It’s Bucky’s arm,” Steve tells him urgently. “Something’s wrong with it. Seriously wrong.”

Bucky, delirious with the pain, can almost taste the change of atmosphere.

“Put him on the table,” he hears Tony say as if he’s standing at the end of a tunnel. A boiling tear escapes the cage of Bucky’s eyelashes and runs down his cheek. Huh. That hasn’t happened in nearly seventy years. 

Bucky is suddenly pulled away from the warmth of Steve’s chest and set down on an unrelentingly hard surface, and he very nearly whines, wanting the comfort of Steve back. 

“I’m gonna check for chemicals, okay?” He hears Tony ask. Before he can muster up the strength to nod, the sharp jab of a needle is pierced into his bicep and left in for a few seconds before it’s pulled out. 

“Why?” he hears Steve say. He vaguely hears Tony answer him, saying something about how he needs to check for anything else before he tries to put pain meds in, because the sheer amount he needs to give Bucky to have it affect him at all is almost enough to kill him, and if there’s anything else he could overdose unwillingly. Bucky thinks that that’s pretty smart, and he means to say it out loud, but he suddenly can’t think over a new sheet of agony that rips through his arm and eventually the rest of his body. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says. “This arm needs to come out, like right now. Steve, hold him down.”

Sharp pressure is put on one of his arms and his thighs, and Bucky screams as the pain in his arm intensifies. It feels like a hot knife is being dug into the flesh of his shoulder, and twisting and twisting and _twisting_. 

There’s a little relief when his metal arm thumps down onto the table heavily, disconnected from his shoulder stump, but it’s short-lived. He hears voices above him speaking rapidly, and he’s suddenly roughly turned onto his side, his left shoulder blade bared. 

He dimly realizes his shirt has been cut away on that side, and wonders, when that happened before the sharp point of a knife digs into the meat of his back, leaving icy pain in its wake and cutting a clean line that he knows is exposing pearly drops of blood that will drip onto the beautiful designs that were strewn across the table. They will have spots of red, now. They will no longer be pristine. 

His eyes roll back, and he becomes limp in Steve’s strong hands, succumbing to the white-hot agony.

-

He cracks his eyelids open slowly, getting them used to the light. The world is quite bright, and it takes nearly half a minute before he can open them all the way. His back aches, his shoulder stump aches, and his head feels fuzzy, like someone’s thumped him on the head with a hammer. Bucky’s also shirtless, and he belatedly realizes that he’s actually a little cold.

Directly in front of his nose, several feet away on a drafting table, is his metal arm. It glints a little in the blue lighting of the workshop, and it takes a minute for him to realize the edge of it is shiny with blood. There’s also a pool of yellowish liquid surrounding the stump, flowing sluggishly from the arm.

He looks away, stomach rolling, and notes absently that he’s lying on a soft surface; probably Tony’s couch. He’s on his side, his flesh arm tucked underneath him, numb with the weight.

He isn’t sure what else to do so he starts the slow process of extracting his arm out from under him, going slowly as not to disturb what seems to be a long cut stemming forward from his shoulder blade to his collarbone. He finally manages it with a grunt, and flops it in front of his sideways body, wiggling his fingers to try and get feeling back into them. 

“Bucky?” comes a tentative voice from behind him, and Bucky startles, jerking himself up until he’s standing, his left shoulder stump moving forwards in front of his body instinctively as if he still had his metal arm. His right arm reaches for a gun that isn’t there and grabs the nearest sharp object, which happens to be a screwdriver. It hurts like a bitch, and he clenches his jaw as the cut on his back and shoulder is pulled, sending ribbons of agony down his spine. 

It turns out to be Tony and Steve, who are watching him with identical alarmed expressions. Tony rushes over, ignoring the murderous expression that’s sure to be gracing his facial features and starts fussing by his shoulder, running light fingers around it. He twitches, and Tony smacks him on the ass. 

Bucky twists around and growls at him, but Tony only looks back defiantly. “You tore your stitches, asshole,” he says angrily. “Jesus, do you know how much pain you should be in right now? Do you feel _anything?_ ”

“It smarts a little,” Bucky tells him defensively. “Mostly ‘m just aching.”

Tony sighs heavily, rubbing two fingers on the bridge of his nose. “Alright, we might as well get started taking measurements while you’re down here.”

“Measurements? For what?”

“Your new arm, Buckeroo.”

“What’s wrong with my old arm?” Bucky asks, thinking about it on the table behind him. Can’t Tony just fix it?

“It tried to kill you, is what’s wrong with it,” Steve says in front of him, and Bucky whips his head back around so fast he almost gets a crick in his neck. Christ, he’d forgotten he was there. 

He shakes his head and dispels the Winter Soldier’s voice in his head, who’s taking the opportunity to mock him for losing awareness of his surroundings. 

“Tried to kill me?”

“You’re telling me you went through all that pain and didn’t think you were dying? Christ, Bucky, what did they do to you?” Tony asks incredulously. 

Bucky looks away. _Too much and not enough_ , his mind screams. _I’m fucked up six ways from Sunday and they didn’t even fix me._ He grits his teeth and forces himself to answer Tony. “I don’t feel a lot of pain,” he says, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. That’s false, of course. He’s always had a low pain threshold, and no amount of experimenting could cure him from that. 

All Hydra did was force him to learn to compartmentalize pain, and not show it in his actions and features. With them, he’d get punished if he wasn’t able to, usually by making him endure more until he passed out, delirious with agony. They were fond of shooting him on the outside of his thigh, a place where it wouldn’t quite hinder his movement, but it would hurt like a _bitch_. 

They’d do it without warning, too, monitoring closely to see his reaction. If the pain showed, they’d beat him or shoot him again, before reciting the trigger words to insure he was theirs, and then put him into cryostasis. If it didn’t, if by some miracle he managed to keep it in, they would send him out on a mission and give him a day off after to clean, reload, polish, organize, or fix his weapons. The Winter Soldier liked doing this. It was a form of control he could exercise. It was a reward, above all else.

Here he knows it’s okay, it’s okay to be human, he’s already cried, dammit, but something still holds him back, something still feels ashamed at how he started _crying_ yesterday. That part of him demands he man up and stop being such a wuss, and is still expecting at any moment to be shot in the ass, or worse, calf.

Steve’s looking at him, unimpressed, and Bucky fights the urge to flinch. The answer might be believable to Tony, who’s never had to pick splinters out of Bucky’s hand when he was kid while Bucky muffled his tears in his shoulder, but to Steve? Forget it. 

He doesn’t comment, however, and Bucky is grateful. 

“Alright, well, lucky you, but back to the arm. Is it alright if I start today?”

“Start what?” Bucky asks dumbly, his head suddenly flooded with memories of himself swallowing his screams as Sarah Rogers washed out his scraped knee with alcohol, shutting his eyes as tight as they could go when getting shots at the doctor’s, stifling his cries when he sprained his wrist falling down the stairs…

“Your new arm…” Tony says slowly, a bit of _what the fuck is wrong with you_ creeping into his voice.

Bucky thinks about it. He does want a new arm, wants it very badly, because who wants to be lopsided? However, he cannot help thinking about the excruciating pain from earlier, and to say he’s not eager to repeat the experience is an understatement. 

“I’ll give you pain meds,” Tony assures him. “I’ll even knock you out,” he offers. 

To that, Bucky shakes his head frantically. Painkillers might be okay, but he can’t, he _can’t_ go back to the squiggly octopus tentacles of darkness creeping over his vision as the light leaves him and he sinks into cold, freezing…

“Not those, then,” Tony says gently, soothingly. “Alright, then, if that’s a yes, can you sit back down for me? This should only take twenty minutes or so.”

Bucky obediently takes a seat, and notices Steve again, who’s moved from directly in front of him to the side of the couch, hovering awkwardly as if he doesn’t know whether he’s welcome or not. Bucky wonders about that, wonders what happened between them. 

He saw the kiss, everyone saw the kiss, but he doesn’t know what’s behind it. Whatever it is, it must be something big. “We’ll be fine,” he tells Steve softly. “I’ll come find you after, okay?”

Steve nods uncertainly, but Bucky can see relief in his eyes warring with the desire to stay. He leaves, however, with a crease between his eyebrows and a glance Bucky can’t decipher for Tony, who’s pointedly not looking at him.

When the door finally hisses shut, however, and Bucky looks at Tony, he can see tension he didn’t notice earlier dissipating, rolling off him in waves. Tony flashes a quick grin at him, one that says _thank you_ , and Bucky nods without thinking about it.

“Okay, Buckeroo,” Tony says loudly. “Sit still and let JARVIS work his magic. I’m serious. Don’t move.”

Bucky nods, and keeps as still as he can manage in his seat, breathing lightly through his nose and forcing the fingers on his flesh hand not to twitch. Tony said not to move, so he’s not going to move.

“Jesus, that’s creepy,” Tony breathes, clearly impressed. He’s watching Bucky make like a statue and freeze, and he’d been lying if he said it wasn’t a bit creepy. The man is completely still, and Tony isn’t sure he’s even breathing. Bucky hasn’t blinked yet, either, and thinking of that makes Tony oddly conscious of his own eyes opening and closing. Ugh. Now he feels like he has to manually blink.

“Sorry,” Bucky responds in his low husk of a voice. “Sniper,” he says as a way of explaining.

“Ah, alright. It just freaked me out a bit,” Tony says uncomfortably.

Bucky shrugs, finding himself searching for something to talk about. He juts his chin in the direction of his arm on the table. “What happened with that?”

Tony visibly cheers up. “It tried to kill you,” he tells him brightly which, okay, is a little concerning. Bucky isn’t sure what to say, but Tony seems to have the talking covered.

“There were little vials of poison in the arm up near your shoulder, and some of it was released into the arm to mess up the few nerve receptors you have, but most of it was deposited into the bloodstream at your shoulder. Enough poison to kill me in a few minutes,” he adds as an afterthought, as if what he’s just said is not going to fuel Bucky’s nightmares for a week.

“The poison was meant to drip into you slowly, and then all at once, and from what I’ve managed to extract from Cap, that’s what’s been happening. Frankly, it’s a bit of a miracle you survived that high of a dosage, but uh, for the record, I’m glad you did,” Tony says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. Bucky feels something warm and soft curl around his heart, but he keeps silent as Tony takes it upon himself to blather on.

“Anyway, as for that _lovely_ cut on your back, that’s from me cutting you open to take the arm out. Damn Hydra assholes connected the arm to metal framing on your spine. With that amount of weight and strain, you should’ve permanently broken something a long time ago.

“I mean, seriously, what is in the juice you drink?” Tony asks, disbelievingly, and Bucky smiles slightly.

“The blood of my enemies,” he answers lightly.

Tony looks startled, before he throws his head back and laughs. “That would do it, I suppose,” he says, still chuckling. Bucky can’t help but quietly admire him then, the way he just seems so… free. Any tension between them from Steve or things they’ve said is suddenly broken with that one relaxed laugh, and though Bucky would rather die than admit it, he’s glad.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, letting JARVIS do his magic, and Tony’s eyes keep flicking to his, as if he wants to say something, but can’t quite bring himself to. Bucky grows extremely curious, but manages not to say anything, figuring that pushing him isn’t going to do anything.

“Sir, I’ve finished the scan on Mr. Barnes’ arm.”

“Wonderful, JARVIS,” Tony says absently, already pulling up glowing screens that seem to float in the air transparently, his fingers flying across them. Bucky has no idea what they are, but he’s seen Tony use them a few times and is desperate to try. Unfortunately, now doesn’t seem the time.

From where he’s sitting, Bucky can see that it’s a diagram of his arm, laid out in painstaking detail with arrows and calculations and jotted down words. The whole thing seems chaotic and unorganized to him, but it makes perfect sense to Tony, whose intelligent eyes skim over it thoughtfully, adjusting margins and writing down new things with his finger.

He waves that one away after a while, and pulls up an x-ray. He makes a twirling gesture with his finger, and the screen swivels towards Bucky. Tony sits down on a chair with small black wheels on the feet, and nods at it.

“That’s your back. Can you play spot the difference between the two halves?” he asks, a teasing lilt clear in his voice.

Bucky scowls at the patronising words, but he can see what he’s talking about. The right side is pristine and clear, the white lines of his ribs and the sweeping dip of his clavicle clearly discernible from the rest of the body, and he can even see the faint mass of his lung behind them.

The other side, however.... is a mess. Fragments of white metal are clamped all over his clavicle and his spine, which is curving just a bit towards the left from the constant weight of his late metal arm. His clavicle doesn’t look quite right; it looks like it broke, then got stitched up back together again. Skinny white snakes of wire curl and tangle around his spine and in between, a few stretching all the way out to his arm, looking like they’ve been cut in half. They probably were, Bucky thinks, Tony probably just snipped ‘em.

Below his left shoulder is just a chasm of black where his arm is supposed to be, and dammit, he knows he doesn’t have that arm, has known for seventy years, but he can really see the difference now, can really see what they did to him. The mangled bits of metal offer more proof of Hydra’s experimentation on him, and their desire to use him for their own purposes and nothing more.

Tony’s right: something should’ve broken a long time ago with that kind of strain in those places. Horror rises in Bucky’s gut, but he clamps down on it, knowing it won’t do any good. Tony’s going to do the best he can with what he has, and Bucky has to trust him.

Almost on cue, Tony breaks his silence. “It won’t take long,” he says. “Give me a few weeks to make your arm, and then we can talk about how to attach it so the whole strain-on-the-shoulder thing doesn’t happen again.” He suddenly grins maniacally. “Then we can start making it look sick.”

“Sick?” Bucky asks, a little alarmed by the phrasing.

“Cool, Buckster. We’re gonna make it cool.”

Bucky bites his lip. He kind of misses his star. “Can you do paint jobs?” he asks, tentatively, wondering what the answer will be.

“Yeah, of course,” Tony tells him brightly. He grins a little. “That was a cool star you had.”

Bucky smiles tightly. “It was.” It was also a mockery of the star on Steve’s shield, meant to cruely show that they now had control of the best friend to the late Captain America (or so they thought). As it turned out, they wouldn’t control Bucky for long, and Steve wasn’t dead, so.

Still, the star is important to have, somehow. He sees it now as a mockery of _them_ , a symbolic _fuck you_ to the people who gave the damned thing to him in the first place.

Tony clears his throat, a raspy, guttural sound that turns into a coughing fit halfway through, and makes Bucky snort and roll his eyes while Tony sputters in front of him, grabbing a glass of water DUM-E places next to his hand. Bucky thinks he remembers something Sam, or maybe Steve, told him about Tony not liking to be handed things.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, amusement written clear across his face.

“Oh, fuck you,” Tony gasps, and takes another sip. “Jesus Christ.”

Bucky smiles. “Were you going to say anything?” he asks innocently.

“Oh, yeah! I nearly forgot! I’m decorating a nursery with the rest of the team, but it’s mostly Thor and Natasha, I’m pretty sure Bruce just sits in the corner and drinks tea while he reads…” Tony sets the glass down, and gestures wildly with his hands. “Thor said he was going to get a bunch of stuffed animals, you know, and we said no bigger than his hand, but that’s, like, bigger than my head, let’s be honest, and to be honest, I’m a little excited about what he’s going to bring home, because a Norse god choosing what animals are the best? I mean, that’s got to be interesting…”

Bucky watches quietly as Tony rambles on about stuffed animals and the painting that has already been done, the rocking chair he’s rigged ( _“but don’t tell anyone, shhh”_ ), and the wildflowers Natasha’s working on that already cover half the wall. He lounges back a little on the couch, making sure not to hurt his shoulder, and just listens to the man in front of him drone on.

Bucky traces his eyes lightly over Tony’s features, the brown eyes lit up by excitement for the nursery, the expressive hand gestures that somehow give Bucky a perfect picture of what he’s explaining, the smile in his features, the clear happiness and safety this project has clearly brought to him, and the whole thing just seems so… endearing.

It’s nice, Bucky realizes. He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no fucking idea what that first part was about with the team and Tony in the kitchen. I just wanted to tie off that whole thing because I did not think ahead!! Also quick clarification: Neither Tony nor Bucky knows that the Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark.
> 
> Last thing: any questions, concerns, suggestions, etc. in the comments will be answered, even if you're finding this fic three years after it's last been updated. I just want to make sure there are no loose ends :)
> 
> last last thing I promise: come join me on Tumblr! My user is 21greendragons and uh I post about fanfiction and stuff. also a stuckony bingo will be going out soon. okay thanks bye!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky paints a wall, gets a new arm, has a bad dream, and tickles Steve. Steve tickles Bucky, and spends a lot of time on his bed. Tony finds out the gender of his baby and brings home a picture, cries a little, and falls asleep. Bucky and Tony also have a short conversation about their sex lives which goes exactly nowhere :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STEVES BEHAVIOR IS EXPLAINED NEXT CHAPTER I JUST NEEDED YALL TO KNOW THIS

Bucky traces his hands lightly over the delicate petals of the wildflowers Natahsa’s started painting along one wall, admiring the colors silently. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tony murmurs behind him. It’s the next day after Steve rushed him to the workshop and Tony ripped his metal arm out of his socket, a memory that is sure to remain in Bucky’s damaged mind forever.

Bucky nods. He takes in the rest of the room, the crib in the corner, the rocking chair by the door, disassembled pieces of a mobile scattered on the floor by the far wall. A purple stuffed platypus sits happily on the rocking chair, and next to it is…

“Is that a Bucky Bear?” Bucky blurts out, because holy shit. He’d completely forgotten about those. Which is understandable, but still.

Tony smiles a little. “Yeah, I put that one in. I hope that’s okay?” He turns faintly worried eyes on Bucky. “We can take it out if it makes you uncomfortable or whatever,” he mumbles.

“No, no,” Bucky says, rushing to reassure him. “Just haven’t seen one in a while, is all.”

“Oh,” Tony says, and he looks relieved. “Hey, do you want to help me? We still need to paint the far wall.”

“Sure.” Bucky feels something inside of him solidify comfortably as Tony hands him a paint roller and a bucket of paint, balancing them both in his one arm. Because this? Receiving orders and following through with them? That’s something he’s used to, something that’s second nature.

Tony sits down in the rocking chair, clearly exhausted. Bucky notices that he keeps shifting, and Bucky wonders if his back is hurting. He looks down at his hand, wrapped around the handle of the paint roller, and thinks maybe later he could try to give him a massage, single-handed though it may be.

He works quickly with his super soldier efficiency, and by the time he finishes it’s well past noon. He looks behind him to find Tony curled up in a rocking chair, fast asleep. A small smile graces Bucky’s lips without him thinking about it or forcing it, and he makes note of the delicate spread of dark lashes over high cheekbones, the pale pink of soft lips, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

From what Bucky’s picked up, Tony doesn’t trust easily. Yet time and time again Bucky’s seen small moments of it in their interactions, like when Tony took his suit off in that courtyard so Bucky didn’t get hurt by his own bullets, or the time he waited in the alley for Bucky to return, without any doubt that he would. 

Falling asleep in front of another person, in Bucky’s personal opinion, is one of the vulnerable states you can be in. Tony’s trusting him not to hurt him. They both know that at any given moment Bucky can kill him easily and without effort. In fact, in the time that it’s taken for him to think these thoughts, he can think of multiple ways he could’ve murdered Tony Stark.

Trust is a fragile thing, though. Bucky knows that breaking it, especially when it belongs to this man, is an awful idea. 

Bucky carefully climbs down from the ladder without any hands, using only his right forearm for balance. He makes sure to keep the paint roller away from the paint-splattered green ladder, and it’s with great caution that he walks over to Tony and gently shakes his shoulder.

Tony hums sleepily, but doesn’t stir further. 

“Tony.”

“Go away,” Tony mumbles, and cracks one eye open. Bucky refuses to find that adorable. “Let me sleep. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a full night of sleep? Three days.”

“Three _days?_ ” Bucky croaks out. “Tony, why aren’t you sleeping?”

Tony huffs and arranges himself into a sitting position. “Shouldn’t have told you that,” he grumbles, and attempts to push Bucky away and stand. 

Bucky pushes him back gently into the rocking chair. He clears his throat and nudges Tony’s chin up with the knuckles of his hand. “Nightmares?” he rasps.

Tony starts to shake his head, but then slumps, defeated. “Yes,” he says in a small voice.

“What makes it better?” he asks.

Tony knows what makes it better. Having another person sleep next to him. But like hell he’s going to tell Bucky that. 

Bucky guesses it correctly anyway. “Did it help when I slept next to you?”

Tony nods, and looks down at the floor.

“Tony, have you not been sleeping these past three months?” Bucky asks, confusion and horror warring within him. How long has this man been suffering from them?

Tony looks up, startled, and quickly takes in Bucky’s horrified expression. “I’ve been sleeping,” he says, rushing to reassure Bucky. “They weren’t that bad, then. I kind of made myself sleep because I knew it would be good for it.” He clears his throat. “For them.”

Bucky doesn’t have to ask who “them” is. “What brought them back?” he asks, and he knows the answer even before Tony tries to deflect the question.

“Not important,” he says, waving a hand, but Bucky’s firm on this.

“Was it me?” he asks, hating how his voice almost cracks at the end.

It’s Tony’s turn to look horrified as he looks up at Bucky, still sprawled in the chair. “No! Of course not. You’ve been nothing but help, Bucky.”

His voice is soft and sweet when he says his name, and Bucky wants to take the bait the man’s offering, wants to just concentrate on the way his name fell so perfectly from between Tony’s lips, but he has a mission, dammit.

“Is it Steve?” 

This time, the silence is a little bit too long. “No–” Tony starts to say, but Bucky beats him to it.

“Bullshit,” Bucky growls. Tony presses his lips together. Bucky desperately wants to pry them apart and force him to answer the question: _”What the fuck happened between you?”_ but he knows that would be going too far.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks finally. Tony freezes, as if that was the last thing he was expecting out of Bucky’s mouth. 

“No,” he says, finally. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s heart clenches at the obvious lie, but he doesn’t call the other man out on it. He knows a little something about other people thinking they know what’s best for him and how frustrating that can be. He isn’t going to do the same to Tony. But where there was furious emotion before, now there’s just emptiness, lined with sympathy for help Tony won’t even ask for.

When Tony doesn’t say anything more, he sighs and leaves the workshop, bidding a quiet farewell.

He takes the stairs to his room instead of the elevators, even taking them two at a time. He wants to go fast, but he wants to work for it. There’s a single cardboard box laid out on his bed, sealed with glossy transparent packing tape that makes the brown material look like it’s been covered in resin. He shoves the box between his knees and cuts a slit down the center of the box with his fingernail, opening it carefully.

Inside there’s a stack of sheets in dark colors, all soft to the touch. Underneath the pile is a small white note, that’s been typed. 

_There’s nothing wrong with your current sheets,_ it starts. 

_I just figured you’d want something a little more tasteful and soft. You seem like a cuddlebug,_ it ends teasingly, and Bucky snorts aloud. It’s signed with a capital T, and Bucky spends a moment mourning the typed words. He wishes he could see the actual handwriting, but immediately after he thinks this he feels a bit disgusted at himself. 

A sentimental soul is one thing Bucky Barnes has never been. 

-

About a week later, Tony finally approves him to be the receiver of a new motorcycle. They’d quickly realized taking apart an engine with only one hand was next to impossible, so he’d just decided to declare Bucky capable.

“Here,” he says, handing Bucky a notebook and bright orange pen. “Write down anything you want to be on it. Go wild; I can basically add anything you want, so if there’s an engraving you want, or a color, or a mounted machine gun, I can do that,” Tony tells him, and laughs a little at the interested gleam in Bucky’s eyes at the possible prospect of his bike having a machine gun.

“Ain’t that neat,” Bucky says, accepting the pad of paper and pen. “Can I rig it like you did your rocking chair?”

Tony snorts, and rolls his eyes almost… affectionately? “You need to stop paying attention to me,” he says, and Bucky grins.

“You’d hate that.” His voice goes high and mocking. “ _‘Bucky! Bucky look at me!’_ ” 

Tony reels back, putting a hand on his chest and exclaiming in mock outrage. “How dare you! I don’t need that much attention!” Bucky raises an eyebrow. Tony huffs and turns away. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Maybe I do.”

Bucky laughs once, a short sound that’s more of a forced noise then an actual chuckle. “It’s okay. I don’t mind being around,” he says honestly but makes sure to look away, to give Tony time to compose his face if he needs to. 

Tony grins at him gratefully, and turns to one of his fancy holographic displays. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?” Bucky asks, eyebrow cocked. “Did you convince Sam to give me my gun back? My waistband’s been feelin’ awfully barren without it.”

Tony shakes his head, smiling. “That sounds like quite the hardship, but no.” He turns to look at Bucky and winks, before bending down and opening a cabinet and pulling out a large object wrapped in blue fire-retardant fabric.

“How do you feel about attaching a new arm, Barnes?”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “You’ve finished it already? It’s been two weeks!”

Tony smiles, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes crinkling. “I work fast. Do you want to see it or not? I can’t call you Terminator or Robocop until it’s attached again.”

“What a hardship,” Bucky echoes, but he can’t quite contain his excitement.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. God, you’re gonna love this. I added a tiny gun, okay, and I put your star because I couldn’t remember if you asked or not but it’s there now and it looks _awesome_ , and I fixed the framing and it’s lighter now too and the joints won’t squeak and–”

“So you’re saying she’s a sophisticated hunk of metal?”

“It’s not a piece of junk!” Tony blurts. He shakes his head. “It is a very sophisticated blend of traditional mechanics and engineering and biomechanics, one that took me two weeks of nearly nonstop work to create it. In fact…” he trails off and turns to root through a drawer on his left. When he looks up, Bucky is grinning at him.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“Now I know what you jerk off too,” he smirks, and a startled laugh is ripped from Tony.

“You’re not wrong,” he says, and winks. 

Bucky only grins back and shakes his head. He can tell they’re wading into somewhat dangerous territory here, but for the life of him he can’t stop. “How would you like me?”

“However you want to be, baby,” Tony says with a wink, then groans. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I haven’t gotten laid in, like, four months. I can’t control myself.”

Bucky shakes his head and smiles. “I haven’t gotten laid in seventy years, Stark, speak for yourself.”

Tony whistles. “Damn. Must be unbearable.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Not all of us are insatiable beasts.”

“That’s true,” Tony agrees, “but I think you’re lying. I think you’re waiting until our backs are turned before you jump some poor girl.”

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you, Tony.”

Tony looks at him seductively. “How can it be a sex life if there’s no sex?”

Bucky glares at him. “Might I remind you that we’re in the same boat, here?”

Tony grins happily. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re left handed, no?”

Bucky shrugs. 

“See?” Tony’s grin widens. “At least I can jerk off with the proper hand.” He preens as if he’s said something clever. “Same boat, my ass.”

Bucky carefully raises one eyebrow, his eyes all heat and fire. “I’m ambidextrous, Stark. Have to be,” he says, and oh, is that a mental picture. Tony goes slightly cross-eyed trying to imagine it and see the scene in his head.

When he forces himself to come back to the present before something unfortunate happens downstairs, he’s met by the sight of Bucky shaking in silent laughter. “Oh, fuck you,” Tony grumbles. “You can’t just drop that on a guy, Barnes. Warn a bloke.”

Bucky just smiles and shakes his head. “Is that a blush I see?” he asks mockingly, just the right amount of seduction thrown in. Like he predicted, Tony immediately flushes, and Bucky silently congratulates himself on the successful mission.

“Alright, for real now.” Tony mutters, a pretty blush that Bucky kind of wants to lick still high on his cheekbones. “C’mon, get your damned shoulder over here.” Bucky sits in a rolling chair and scoots close to the table, where Tony gently holds it in place and starts mumbling to himself, running his hands over it and mapping the muscle gently, lifting up the stump as far as it will go and even inspecting his underarm.

“It’s been healing nicely,” Tony murmurs, meeting Bucky’s eyes briefly before going back to running his fingers over the scarred remains of his left shoulder. “Well done.”

“Okay, so we’re just going to take some more x-rays and check how everything’s doing inside as well as look at the arteries and veins… fuck, I wish Bruce was here but I know you don’t really like him…” Tony keeps a litany of babble as he roots through his cabinets, starting to give JARVIS some instructions. Bucky just watches, amused, and does his best to sit still.

Tony pulls some sort of gun thing out of a drawer and switches it on, a red light coming out from one end. 

“This won’t hurt a bit,” he drawls.

Three hours after that statement Bucky Barnes has a new shiny arm with a tiny gun, and he realizes Tony was right: it hadn’t hurt at all, not once.

-

“I want to smile more,” Bucky says quietly to Steve. They’re in his room, Steve sitting back against the headboard of his bed and Bucky leaning against the wall on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest.

Steve looks up slowly, and meets his eyes. “What do you mean? I’ve seen you smile.”

Bucky nods, slowly. It’s true, he has been smiling a lot more. He’s also laughed once, a startled chuckle that was pulled from him during one of his many visits during the past weeks to Tony’s workshop. The encounter included a forlorn DUM-E, an exasperated Tony Stark, a small red bouncy ball that was no longer with them, unfortunately, a perfect circular hole in the workshop wall, and the aforementioned laugh. If Tony had noticed that that was the first of Bucky’s laughter he’d heard, he didn’t mention it, and Bucky still wasn’t sure whether he appreciated it or not. 

“I don’t want to be so… unapproachable, ya know?” he tells Steve, looking down at his hands, which are trembling very slightly. That surprises him. His hands have never shaken before, not even when he was putting bullets through people’s heads through the vision of a scope. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, really. I don’t know why I’m saying anything at all,” he admits, feeling childish.

Bucky is still refusing to look at Steve but he knows him well enough, even after all that’s happened, to know that he’s nodding his head slowly, trying to understand. “Alright, Buck,” he says, and Bucky can tell he’s looking for more information, more details about what exactly is going through that damaged brain of Bucky’s, but Bucky doesn’t feel like giving it to him. 

He’s said his piece, even if it was a bit small and pathetic, and it almost feels like he’s given himself a new mission to add to his list. His list has three items now: protecting Tony Stark from the demons of the world, figuring what the fuck happened between Steve and Tony, and smiling more. 

He thinks it’s growing nicely, and he even makes progress on it a couple of days later.

Bucky drapes himself dramatically over the foot of Steve’s bed, shoving his feet into Steve’s lap. Steve sighs loudly, and puts the book he was reading onto the floor before idly rubbing Bucky’s heels.

Steve meets Bucky’s eyes, amusement dancing in them. “What can I do for you, Sergeant Barnes?” he asks cheekily, and Bucky barely manages to clamp down on his own grin.

Bucky snorts. “Easy, Captain. You’re wading into dangerous territory here.”

“Oh, is that so?” Steve asks, his smile widening.

“If you’re not careful, I’ll make you do something you regret,” Bucky drawls.

Steve cocks an eyebrow. “Like this?” His fingertips brush the underside of Bucky’s feet, the shadow of a touch. Steve turns his startling blue eyes on his and Bucky’s narrow, before widening slightly. 

“ _Steve, you better fucking not–_ ” Bucky warns before he’s suddenly arching off the bed, a fit of laughter overtaking him. Steve pins his ankles to his lap and starts wiggling his fingers ruthlessly on the underside of Bucky’s feet, a maniacal grin stretched wide across his face.

Bucky shrieks, trying valiantly to pull his feet from Steve’s grasp, but Steve’s hands are too tight and his strength is weakened as he cackles, breathless laughter echoing throughout the room. “No, no Steve!” he gasps, throwing his head back and laughing uncontrollably as Steve reaches up one hand to tickle the back of his knee, causing Bucky’s whole leg to jerk. 

Steve’s fingers finally stop their relentless attack on his feet and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief, before Steve suddenly is crawling up his body, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You fuckin’–” Bucky hisses, but he doesn’t get a chance to tell what Steve what he is before Steve suddenly continues his attack, this time targeting the side of his stomach, his neck, his armpits, and anything else he can reach.

Bucky almost screams when Steve lifts his shirt up and reaches his hand under it, tickling the soft skin over his abs before he breaks into wheezing laughter, pushing weakly against his hand.

“Ah, Steve! No, no!” Hot tears squeeze out from the corners of Bucky’s eyes and his stomach hurts from laughing so hard, but he can’t fucking stop. Finally, _finally_ , Steve sits back, panting a little. Helpless laughter breaks through his lips as Bucky glares at him in between wheezes, gaze promising murder.

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve tells him, laughing as Bucky flips him off.

Bucky’s tired and his stomach _aches_ , but he’s not tired enough to straddle Steve and begin his own ambush.

Steve immediately closes his eyes tightly and starts laughing, twisting and wriggling like a fish under Bucky, trying to escape his fingers. Bucky quickly discovers that blowing raspberries on exposed skin works quite well, and puts his plan into motion as soon as possible.

He leans over, tickling Steve’s sides relentlessly and blowing a big raspberry onto the soft skin on the side of his neck. Steve shrieks with laughter and his torso convulses as he tries to duck his head away from Bucky’s mouth, which is on any part of him he can reach, blowing raspberries.

“Bucky, I’m sorry!” Steve pants, regret clear in his eyes. “I’m sorry!”

“You better be, Punk,” Bucky growls. “ _Tickling_ me. How immature of you, Rogers.”

“I know, I know,” Steve says breathlessly, giggling when Bucky slides down and lifts his shirt to blow a big raspberry on his stomach. His abs contract with his laughter and Bucky traces them with his eyes quickly. Washboard abs, indeed.

Unfortunately, tracing them quickly was not quick enough, and Steve’s able to regain his breath enough to heave Bucky off of him and roll to the other side of the bed while he holds his sides and wipes away tears of mirth.

Steve catches Bucky’s eye, and can’t help but burst into laughter again. Bucky rolls his eyes and pushes himself up until he’s in a sitting position, gazing down sternly at Steve. “You brought this upon yourself,” he says, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching as Steve looks at him pitifully.

“Maybe,” he agrees, and tugs himself up into a sitting position against the headboard. His shirt is still rucked up from Bucky blowing a raspberry on it during their tickling battle, and Bucky has to fight not to watch his muscles flex as Steve pushes himself up.

Steve catches him studiously looking away and gives him a crooked smile, one that Bucky knows if he wasn’t already sitting down would make his knees weak. “Like what you see?” he asks, eyebrows wiggling.

Bucky scoffs. “As if I’d like anything so plebeian as your pale ass,” he says, and hides a smile as an affronted expression crosses Steve’s face.

“Well, excuse you,” Steve says, mock offended.

Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs a pillow to slam Steve over the head with. 

“Cocky bastard,” he says, and swings it.

Steve’s laughing as he easily bats the pillow away and grabs another to swat Bucky with. He winks and says: “Only with you, darlin’.” His accent is pure Brooklyn, and Bucky feels goosebumps on his arms erupt from the sheer familiarity of it. God, but he hasn’t realized how much he missed the simple drawl until he didn’t hear it anymore.

Bucky takes a half-second to appreciate Steve like this. This is the most open and carefree he’s seen him yet, and this is the Steve Rogers he has broken memories of. He almost wants to break up the moment of silliness and laughter and curl himself around Steve and say how glad he is that he’s here, but he knows that will bring nothing but confusion and will put them on a funny note.

So instead, Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh and swings his pillow, this time managing to catch Steve off-guard. The resounding thwack of cotton and whatever is inside of pillows is satisfying against Steve’s chest, and the man gives a small grunt of surprise. 

After that, it’s on.

It’s only later that it occurs to him that for the first time since the Winter Soldier, he’s really truly laughed. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do that anymore. The thought will comfort him later in the safety of his own bed, and provide him with his first full night of sleep, even if it is a bit restless.

Bucky finally leaves Steve’s room after another half hour, covered in spongy white stuff, his clothes in disarray and his hair a mess. 

He’s smiling, though, and that’s nice. 

-

Bucky wakes up screaming, back arched off the bed and his toes curling. His vocal cords cut out as soon his eyes snap open, and he sags limply into the sheets, panting heavily. His body is taut with nervous energy, and tears are running freely down his face. He can’t exactly pin down what he was dreaming about, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize it was probably something about the Winter Soldier.

He knows he’s way too tired to sleep, so he swings his feet over the side of the bed and wipes at his eyes furiously, hating the salty tears dripping down his nose. He staggers out of his door, not even bothering to put on a jacket or socks or shoes, only intent on getting to some sort of common area, desperate to find some sort of space that won’t just be him and his thoughts, that won’t have any sort of evidence pointing to _Bucky Barnes resides here!_

He doesn’t even want to face himself, and the thought makes a quiet laugh bubble up within him, hysterical in all sense of the word.

He finds himself in the kitchen with a mug in his hand, staring blankly at the coffee machine. There are just so many… buttons. He’s just decided to press one at random and see what comes of it before there's a quiet voice behind him.

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky hears a tired voice ask. He jumps nearly a foot in the air and swears a blue streak. Jesus Christ, it’s been quite some time before someone’s managed to sneak up on him like that. He really must be tired.

He turns to see a haggard-looking Tony yawning as he enters the kitchen, one hand brought up to hide his gaping mouth.

Bucky nods a little, not wanting to speak. “Me either,” Tony sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, making it even more rumpled.

“Why?” Bucky manages to rasp out as Tony gently nudges him aside and turns on the coffee machine.

Tony looks at him and smiles a little. One hand comes carefully down to cradle his stomach, and his voice only trembles a little when he says, “I’m having a girl.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “That’s wonderful,” he tells Tony, because it is. 

Tony’s smile wobbles a little. “Yeah,” he whispers, and leans onto the counter.

They’re quiet for a moment, and Bucky tries to pick his thoughts apart in his head from where they’re all tumbling around in a frenzy, clamouring to be said. 

“Do you have a picture?” he finally offers, and Tony nods before fishing through his pocket and pulling out a glossy black and white photo. 

“Couldn’t bear to leave it in the workshop,” Tony confesses, and shyly offers it to Bucky. Bucky takes it with his flesh hand, not trusting his metal arm to be so gentle with something so precious. He holds it very carefully and studies it with meticulous eye movements, taking in every curve and dip of the baby-resembling white blob floating in the black.

“She’s so tiny,” he mumbles, and he doesn’t expect his voice to catch, doesn’t expect it to come out so choked.

“She is,” Tony whispers back, and he’s smiling softly at the picture, and all of the sudden Bucky’s heart starts pounding, with something akin to affection. It scares him a little, and he doesn’t know what to make the nervous energy rising within him into, doesn’t know whether he should bottle it up, do something about it, or try to forget it.

It’s then he decides the protection he’s providing Tony with is going to extend to the tiny human he’s growing, this perfect little girl that Tony’s going to have. The thought settles him, and he hands the ultrasound back with limited trembling of his hand.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome,” Tony tells him, and tucks it back into his pocket before nudging the super soldier. “She’s going to love you.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment he can’t find the words to respond to a statement Tony seemingly threw out so casually. He knows he needs to find it, however, because Tony’s face is slowly crumpling, and that alone is enough to break Bucky’s heart. He blurts out the first thing he can think of. “She’ll like my long hair,” he says instead. Babies like long hair, he’s pretty sure. Good to tug on.

Tony gapes at him for a second before a startled laugh is ripped from him. Once he starts laughing he can’t stop, and he laughs until tears are running down his cheeks and his sides hurt, all of his pent up emotion from the day at the doctor’s bleeding out in cackles as he grasps his ribs, laughing until he hiccups, the tears running down his face turning into watery sobs. 

God _fucking_ damnit. Tony is so _sick_ of crying. 

He curls in on himself, trying to hide from the man in front of him, and startles when a warm chest is pressed against his back, warm arms gathering him close. He turns his head and cries into a firm pectoral instead, muffling his tears in Bucky’s black shirt.

A steady hand runs through his hair gently before sliding down to stroke the nape of his neck, two fingers pressing lightly into his skin, giving him points to ground himself on. 

_He’s done this before,_ Tony thinks. _He’s had to comfort someone like this previously_. 

He gasps into the shirt and slowly, bit by bit, sucks in deep breaths and calms himself down. The other hand slowly rubs his back, and when Tony pulls away to look at him, the comforting weight of the hand doesn’t leave, like it didn’t in the alley.

He wonders if this sort of thing is instinctual for him, this taking care of others… oh. Of course. Bucky was…Steve’s best friend when he was frail and small, and Tony had read his medical file. The boy had every possible thing one could have without being killed. Asthma, color blindness, a heart murmur, an immune system flimsier than the skin of a blueberry, chronic colds, hypertension, and several fun diseases like scarlet fever and rheumatic fever, the man was the definition of frail. Of _course_ Bucky has done this before. 

He wants to pull away, wants to go hide in a corner, but can’t quite make himself escape the warmth that is Bucky.

Tony reaches behind him blindly and grips the hand that’s rubbing soothing circles into Tony’s back, gripping it tightly in his own. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers into Bucky’s firm chest. 

Bucky just holds Tony’s hand, slowly reaching the other one up until it tangles in Tony’s hair. It’s just as soft as he always imagined it would be, and he runs metal fingers gently through the strands, silently marveling at how he can feel _texture_ now. 

He wants to tell Tony so bad to not be scared, but how can he when Bucky is feeling the same? Instead he tightens his grip on his hand, moving his thumb slightly until he can pick up the racing pulse in the inside of Tony’s wrist.

Tony’s hands are nothing like Bucky expected. He thought they would be soft, for some reason, soft like he imagined the man’s hair to be and his affection to come across as. Instead, they’re rough and calloused from working and holding things all day, and bigger than Bucky previously thought. He can feel the strength in them as Tony’s fingers flex minutely around his, but he can also feel the dexterity, the fine motor skills they’re sure to possess. They’re also warm, and Bucky desperately wants to bring Tony’s palm to his cheek to see if it’ll warm his cold demeanor.

Bucky finds himself wondering what his hand feels like to Tony, but almost immediately dismisses the thought. Of course his hands wouldn’t hold the same quiet grace. What a ridiculous thought. He knows his hands are big, knows they’re strong, but he also knows they’re only good for holding a utensil, wrapping around someone’s neck, holding and pulling the trigger of a gun, and pushing his hair out of his face. Hell, he doesn’t even have both of them.

That thought saddens him slightly, and he suddenly wants to promise Tony that he’ll never, ever, for as long as he lives, hold the perfect little girl he’s bringing to the world. He wants to promise that his hands, hands that have caused nothing but destruction for as long as he’s had them, will never touch a creature so pure. He doesn’t though, because neither of them need that said out loud right now.

Tony continues pressing his face into Bucky’s shirt, breathing slowly through his nose, hitching a muffled sob every once in a while. Bucky keeps carefully running his metal fingers through Tony’s tresses, scraping his scalp lightly. 

The atmosphere they’ve created in the dark kitchen is quiet, warm, safe. Bucky wishes he felt like this all the time. At the end of the room there’s a large window, and Bucky can just barely see a sliver of the moon. That little sliver, however, still manages to send dim silver light through the whole room, flooding it softly. He contemplates the fragility of the moonlight that’s pouring through the window, thinking of how tangible it looks and how easily it could be broken if it was. 

Eventually, Tony tilts his head upwards slightly, and Bucky gently tilts his head downwards, so he’s now cautiously meeting the eyes of the other man.

Bucky holds his eyes and brings his hand connected to Tony’s up, very slowly as not to spook the man. He can feel Tony’s racing pulse beneath his fingertips, hammering incessantly against delicate skin. Bucky knows if he were to spread a hand over Tony’s chest, he would feel his heart pounding a tattoo against his rib cage.

He keeps eye contact with Tony as he gently brings his hand up, keeping it close to his lips for a second, simply breathing slightly warm air over them, before kissing the knuckles tenderly, gently, reverently. 

There’s silence as Bucky’s lips part from the skin, just a bubble of warmth and heat as they stare into one another’s eyes. Everything else falls away, and all Bucky can feel is the delicate hand and pulse beneath his fingertips, a pulse that’s racing faster and faster by the second.

He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing here, and he doubts he’ll ever really know, but for now he’s content to stay in this fragile space of tenderness and racing hearts, enjoying and appreciating each other’s presence.

Tony gently pulls his now faintly trembling hand from Bucky’s grasp and brings it up to cup the side of Bucky’s jaw, cradling it softly. Bucky’s breath hitches and he meets Tony halfway, ducking his head while Tony tilts his up, their lips meeting.

The kiss is soft, and warm, and slow, and perfect, as far as Bucky’s concerned. Tony’s lips are soft, if not slightly chapped, and Bucky maps them as best as he can with his own. Bucky closes his eyes and pulls Tony as close as he can, mindful of the bump between them, careful not to pull too hard. He tilts his head slightly for a better angle and Tony kisses him like that, sliding the hand from grasping his jaw to the cupping the nape of his neck to tangling into his hair, forcing Bucky closer. They stay like that for what must be at least half a minute, the kiss never deepening, until Tony pulls away and opens his eyes slightly, giving Bucky a slightly shaky smile.

To that, Bucky smiles back, moving his metal hand from where it had been on the small of his back to the side of Tony’s face, then extending his thumb to gently rub the curve of Tony’s cheekbone. “You’re real’ pretty, you know that?” he rasps and watches in quiet delight as a light flush spreads over Tony’s cheeks, warming the skin under his metal hand.

“I think you’re just a flirt,” Tony whispers back, and he’s clearly aiming for his usual charm, but misses by about a mile, as his voice comes out a little breathy.

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Bucky says, with feeling, and he’s not sure where all this confidence is coming from but it’s coming from somewhere and he’s going to use it while he can, dammit.

Tony rolls his eyes affectionately. “Just kiss me, Barnes.” And so Bucky leans down and does just that.

It only occurs to him, later, when they’ve stopped kissing and Bucky rests with his chin on top of Tony’s head and Tony’s nose pressed into the side of his neck, that what they’re doing, what they’ve just done, is quite possibly the fragilest thing he’s ever handled. As Bucky leans his weight against the counter and gathers up Tony, listening to the soft sounds of the other man’s breathing even out into sleep and watching the stars slowly creep by, he thinks to himself that he would give his life to protect this, whatever it is.

He’s already fallen in love once, and from the vague memories that tease the edge of his mind, he can remember it being warm, and soft, and thrilling. That’s what it feels like now, here with Tony, and he takes a moment to realize that, _fuck_ , he might be doing it again. The thought frightens him a little, but also comforts him by soothing away the dark voice of the ever-present Soldier, who tells him he’s broken and won’t ever love again. He tightens his arms around the smaller man, breathing out gently.

He’s always been one to fall fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, that last line was a reference to him falling off the train, sue me.
> 
> In other news, the update for next week might be a little spotty, so be just be prepared for the possibility for chapter 7 being posted a Tuesday late, along with chapter 8! This is also a good chapter to stop at if you don't want the see the stuckony start forming, however lopsided it will be at first.
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for sticking by me, giving kudos or leaving a comment or interacting in any way, and just wanted to let you know I appreciate y'all.
> 
> Any suggestions, requests for future chapters or comment oneshots, and constructive criticism will be seriously considered in the comments, and replied to!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out why Steve was such an asshole!!!! Finally :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time a paragraph starts with “he remembers” it’s a new memory :)

In the comics, they’d always painted Bucky Barnes to be some sort of sidekick to Captain America, the best friend who tagged along. _The heavy-hitter for Steve Roger’s brilliant strategy,_ historians might carefully say. _The brawns to Captain America’s brains._

Newspapers only saw him as the Winter Soldier, the ruthless killer with a kill count of over eight hundred. The machine a terrorist organization brainwashed to do their bidding and wicked deeds, an abomination undeserving of forgiveness or respect.

The few movies that had been filmed about Captain America all portrayed him as a second thought, and often didn’t show any of his skills or charm, only used his character as a supportive figure in Steve’s life, almost a human crutch.

And yet, from their few interactions so far, Tony didn’t see how any of this could be true. Power seemed to radiate from the man, but it was soft, too. Like his power was for protecting and leading, not the ruthless killer instincts they’d made him out to have. And as for his alleged “sidekicking”, Tony knew that Bucky wasn’t just a mindless sheep that tagged along with Steve wherever he went. He was his own person, and a damned good one at that.

Growing up, Howard had often told him stories of Bucky, referring to him as “one of the best goddamned snipers the army had ever seen”. Ten-year-old Tony had, of course, thought that quality particularly admirable, and had often asked what the extent of Captain America’s best friend’s abilities were. 

Howard would always glance at him sharply after these requests, because Tony was meant to be seen and not heard, but ultimately comply. Howard never really could resist talking about the sons he wished he had.

 _“He could sever a rope from over two and a half miles away,”_ Howard would tell him, a small smile appearing on his face. _“Had aim sharper than a knife. Wit like one, too,”_ he’d add, almost as an afterthought. _“That man could’ve charmed a fly.”_

Sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, Howard would be in a good mood and tell him another tale of the two supersoldiers, or some random detail about them. Tony would carefully file each tidbit of information away in his mind, steadily building the two men and their personalities up in his head. 

His father spent more time talking about Steve Rogers and the things he did, even going as far as showing Tony an old newsreel of Captain America in action, but Tony was far more interested in Bucky Barnes. Sure, he had Captain America action figures and posters of the man up on his walls, but Bucky fascinated him in a way that Steve just never did.

Maybe it was the way that people were so quick to place him second to Steve, or maybe it was how he was a genius with a gun and a natural flirt, but Tony sometimes felt that Bucky reminded him a lot of… him. Tony had realized at a young age that pretending you were confident was the best way to hide insecurities, and he’d never quite stopped pretending. 

Sometimes he would lay in bed before going to sleep and consider Bucky’s position. Was he really that much of a charmer? Or was he like Tony, forced into a role to protect himself and get attention? These thoughts would haunt him, and often keep him awake for hours at a time in the dead of night, contemplating. 

Meeting Steve caused ripples in Tony’s life, causing new and exciting feelings and things to happen, changing the way he looked at the things. But meeting Bucky? The actual man himself, not the Winter Soldier, that had caused tidal waves, swells of water that built and built and _built_ , disrupting his world, his life, his _perspective_.

He imagined the first time he truly saw the man beneath the mask was throwing up in an alley, however unpleasant the experience was. There was something in that hand, in the way Barnes had patiently rubbed his back, that just screamed “empathy”. And then he’d gone into a crowded shop full of people which must have been stressful as hell, just to get Tony a little cup of water to rinse out his mouth with.

Sure, the memory’s slightly sour from the fact that he left not ten minutes later, but for a brief moment, just a couple of minutes, really, Tony had seen Bucky’s true nature, however hard the man tried to hide it.

And it had just… blown Tony away. He’d promised himself, the night after Bucky left, that he was not going to fall in love with him. He’d made that mistake with Steve, and look how they ended up. But it was like swimming against a strong current, trying to tie shoelaces with one hand, trying to find something under your bed without having to crane your neck uncomfortably to see under: pretty much impossible.

While they were gone it was easy to not to think about Bucky, more concerned with the human growing in his stomach and being depressed over Steve, but once he came back? Back to fighting a losing battle.

He was different from other people Tony had started to fall for too. He was sweet where Steve was mean, and firm where Steve was lax. He was understanding where Pepper wasn’t, and supportive where she would try to coddle him. The less said about Tiberius Stone and Sunset Bain, the better, as it went without saying that Bucky’s flaws were better than their entire personalities.

The point was, at the end of all of this, that Bucky Barnes was an exceptionally amazing person and was quickly becoming one of the most important people in Tony Stark’s life.

-

Bucky wakes a few hours later, the counter digging uncomfortably into his ass. His head had, fortunately, stayed in the slightly leaned back position of resting against the cabinets, and not lolled to the side while he was asleep. Thank God for small mercies and zero cricks in his neck.

All along his front is a warm weight, and he looks down, smiling helplessly, at the still asleep Tony Stark. The other man’s still tucked into his neck, the tip of his nose brushing Bucky’s ear, and as Bucky watches, he breathes out in a little puff, sending a small burst of warm air skittering across Bucky’s skin.

His legs are only aching slightly, even with the combined weight of Tony and himself, as Tony’s completely leaning on him, and he sends a quick prayer of gratitude to Dr. Erskine up in heaven, thankful for the serum. If he hadn’t had it, he imagines he would’ve collapsed long before now, much less fallen asleep _standing up_.

He’d like to stay here, he really would, but the clock hanging on the wall informs him that it’s fast approaching six-thirty, also known as: _The time in the morning Steve Rogers goes running in the morning because he’s a freak._

The last thing either of them need is to give explanations right now. Hell, Bucky can’t even explain him and Tony to himself, and he’s in his own head.

Bucky sets to waking up the other man by lightly rubbing his metal hand up and down his back, his other hand still wrapped tightly around his middle to keep him from slipping to the floor. Tony wakes slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly, before he yawns and tries to burrow into Bucky’s chest, hiding his face from sight.

“Tony,” Bucky warns, a traitorous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth because _ohmygodthatwassocute_.

“What?” Tony slurs. He tilts his head up and frowns at him, before trying to look down at his feet, a shocked look on his face. “Did we…?”

“Fall asleep standing up? Yes, yes we did,” Bucky answers him, amused.

Tony looks back at him, an accusing glare on his face. “’M getting too old for this shit,” he mumbles, and Bucky can’t help but laugh. 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The ninety-year-old’s more spry than the twenty-year-old,” he mutters. He arches back a little and twists, wincing. “Fucking back,” he mutters.

Bucky smiles indulgently. “You are _not_ twenty.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Tony sniffs. 

They fall into silence, and it’s slightly tense. Bucky knows they’re both teetering on the edge of, “what now?” and the problem is, he _doesn’t know_. He knows what he _wants_ them to be, right now? He hasn’t a fucking clue.

“Look,” Tony says, interrupting Bucky’s train of thought. He’s looking away, caged in by Bucky’s arms but avoiding eye contact. He clears his throat. “If you want to forget about… it… we totally can. I mean, if I was in your position I’d probably want to, you know?

“So, uh, if you could just let go of me, we can be on our way…”

Bucky never hated Tony’s rambling before, but right now he does, with a burning passion. He hates the obvious insecurity in his eyes, the walls going up and defenses solidifying. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to let me go,” he says carefully, and he means it in every sense of the phrase. He hopes Tony catches his double meaning.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Tony mumbles. “Would probably fall and crack my head open, or something.”

Bucky sighs. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, knowing he’s backing himself into an impossible corner if this backfires on him. 

“No!” Tony blurts. He coughs. “No, no, not at all.”

Bucky, in spite of himself, smiles. Then he bites the inside of his cheek nervously, trying to think how to phrase his next question. There are butterflies in his stomach, actual butterflies, and the last time he remembers being this nervous is… actually, scratch that. He can’t remember. 

He clears his throat. “Do you, uh, want to step out with me?”

Tony looks at him then, shock written clearly on his face, and Bucky panics for a single boiling moment, and he wants to take the words back oh God oh God, but Tony doesn’t reject him. Instead, he laughs slightly breathlessly and buries his head back into Bucky’s chest briefly before tilting his head back up again.

“I’d love to be your dame,” Tony says, clearly teasing him. 

“Fella,” Bucky mutters, and Tony only laughs harder. 

“Yeah, sure, Robocop. Now kiss me,” he demands, and Bucky complies.

-

Steve wakes up alone, as usual. He gets up and turns right back around to make his bed, before crossing the room to a chair in the corner, where a stack of clothing is already picked and laid out. 

He’s shirtless, so he tugs on the blue running shirt easily, pulling it down and wincing, as always, at his reflection in the mirror across the room. Natasha swears it’ll help him pick up ladies, but Steve just thinks it’s unnecessarily tight. 

After pulling on black running shoes and matching shorts that are _way_ too short (this is getting ridiculous, really, he should just go out naked and see how people react then), he goes to the bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth, before taking a swig of water from the tap in his cupped palm and leaving the room. 

He hums a rhythm-less tune as he takes the stairs down to the kitchen to get a banana before he leaves for his run, or maybe a bit of toast. He hears voices as he nears the communal area, and he grins a little. Maybe Bruce or Sam is making breakfast. His stomach sours at another thought. Or maybe Clint is… he shudders. He’ll never forget the taste of burnt scrambled eggs doused in honey, a delicacy Clint swears by and Natasha swears at.

He reaches the entrance of the room and freezes. Where he’d expected Bruce or Sam or Clint or even Thor raiding the kitchen of pop-tarts, he sees Bucky leaning against the counter, loose and relaxed as he kisses, oh God, _Tony_.

He wants to look away, he knows he should, but he _can’t_. They haven’t noticed him yet, and from the way they’re carrying on, he doubts they will. He leans against the empty door frame, unintentionally imitating Bucky’s pose, but with his hip leaning instead of his ass, and feels fleeting thoughts roll through his head, each one different than the last.

Bucky might not have all his memories of the thirties and forties, but Steve sure as hell does. He remembers every last minute of everything whether he wanted to or not, thanks to the serum improving his memory.

He remembers being sickly and weak, coughing up phlegm into loose sheafs of toilet paper, getting VapoRub rubbed onto his chest and back by his mother or Bucky, the yellow tea that tasted like rotten cabbage but did wonders for his deteriorating immune system. 

He can vividly remember the door slamming open, without fail, at seven minutes past three _every single damn time_ he stayed home from school, bedridden, to reveal a flushed Bucky Barnes, breathing heavily and usually clutching his homework in one hand and bag in the other, in too much of a hurry to stow things properly.

Bucky always claimed that he hurried to the Rogers’ apartment building because he missed Steve, but Steve knew better. He could see the faint crease between his eyebrows, the same crease his mother gets when she gets home from the hospital. The crease was one of worry, and was for the state of Steve’s health. They were scared, he knew, that one day they’d come home and his heart would be stiller than a statue.

And what a comforting thought that was. 

He remembers all those double dates Bucky used to drag him on, the two pretty girls he’d try to set him and Steve up with, but who’d only end up hanging off Bucky’s arm by the end of the night. Steve was too sickly to do more than talk anyway, so it wasn’t like he didn’t understand why they were so attracted to Bucky. Plus, Bucky acted like he owned the world at fifteen, because he was young and handsome and had a crooked smile that made girls weak at the knees. 

He remembers all those nights he and Bucky would sleep over in each other’s rooms while their mothers and Bucky’s sister would talk and play cards in the empty apartment. When they were younger it was an excuse to talk about Eloise’s skirt being above her _knees_ , and whisper excitedly about how they heard Robert had kissed Ellen, _on the mouth_ , behind the school building. 

As they got older, however, it became significantly less innocent. When Bucky was about fifteen and Steve sixteen and having one of their sleepovers, Steve woke in the middle of the night to the sound of labored breathing and gasps coming from Bucky’s cot, and a frantic rustling of fabric.

“Buck?” he had whispered into the darkness. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could taste the fear on his tongue. Was Bucky being possessed just like the pastor had warned them might happen? Was he having a seizure?

The noises abruptly stopped, and Steve’s pulse spiked. Had Bucky _died?_ He had sat up as quickly as he could, and squinted across the room, willing his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting faster. The sight that greeted him made him freeze.

Bucky’s own eyes were wide, his face a mixture of _oh shit_ and the leftover pleasure he’d been forced to stop receiving. His sheets were thrown to the side carelessly, shirt rucked up above his abs that were, quite frankly, impressive for a boy his age, and pants yanked down to his thighs. One hand was frozen near his stomach, and the other was wrapped around…

“Buck?” Steve had whispered again, eyes glued to Bucky’s dick in horror which was swollen to larger size than normal and looked unusually stiff. “What are you _doing?_ ” he he had asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

Bucky had wet his lips, his tongue darting out to swipe over them. “Shit, Stevie,” he rasped,and Steve just nodded dumbly, because he didn’t know what else to do.

They stared at each other for a few silent seconds, before suddenly something broke, and Bucky was suddenly tucking himself away as fast as he could and drawing the sheet across his waist as he scrambled up to sit against the wall. The sheet tented very slightly around his groin, and Steve stared at it, wondering what on earth was happening. 

“Don’t tell my ma,” Bucky had begged, eyes pleading, and Steve yanked his eyes up to meet Bucky’s own terrified gaze somewhat guiltily. 

Steve swallowed. “I–” he licks his lips, an imitation of Bucky’s earlier gesture. “What were you _doing?_ ” he had finally asked, repeating his original question. 

Bucky had looked at him confusedly, before his eyes widened. “You’ve never…?” he made a gesture with his right hand, a sort of loosely closed fist that he yanked up and down. Steve supposed it looked a little obscene, though he couldn’t quite place why.

“No…?” Steve had answered cautiously, now worried that he was missing something here. Was this something people did all the time? Something he should have known about? But then again, a second ago Bucky had been begging him not to tell anyone about what he had been doing, so… where did that leave this mysterious action? And dammit, what exactly _was_ Bucky doing? Just yanking his cock? That didn’t seem very comfortable.

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky had breathed, his eyes lighting up. Steve hadn’t much liked the way his nickname had rolled off of Bucky’s tongue, too dark and heavy; full of promises. Bucky’d swallowed heavily, as if preparing himself for something. “I could show you, maybe?”

“Show me?” Steve had croaked. Was this something people did _together?_ It certainly hadn’t seemed like that a couple of minutes ago; Bucky had seemed fine by himself. 

Bucky had nodded, and Steve gave himself a moment to think before he nodded hesitantly, heart quickening as Bucky cautiously lifted the sheet up, slipping off his cot and approaching Steve. His cock was still pointed up towards the ceiling, curving up towards Bucky’s belly and bobbing with each step he took and Steve eyed it wearily as Bucky came closer. 

Only a couple of minutes later, Steve’s eyes were rolling back into his head as Bucky’s hand continued it’s tugging motion wrapped around him, and soon he was giving a hoarse shout, going boneless against the bed.

Since then, Steve had looked forward to their sleepovers for a different reason.

He remembers a Bucky of the age seventeen, sitting across from him at their dining room table, staring morosely at a drink in front of him that Steve was ninety-nine percent sure was not yellowed water or herbal tea.

At the moment, however, he had more pressing concerns than any underage drinking. “You’re _what?_ ” he had rasped, begging himself silently to understand what Bucky was trying to tell him. 

“I’m a fairy,” Bucky had answered miserably, still refusing to make eye contact. “A poofter, a pansy.”

“But… you like girls,” Steve had said helplessly, leaning back in his chair. 

Bucky laughed hollowly, and Steve hated the sound with a burning passion, hated the emptiness of it, hated how it sounded like Bucky was _giving up_. 

“That’s true,” he had rasped, then shook his head. “But I can’t ignore it anymore, Stevie. It’s killin’ me.”

Steve swallowed heavily, and fought down the urge to get up and shake Bucky until he explained everything. There was a tide of hope rising within him, frothing and foaming at the edges, for several reasons. First, if the military found out, they’d surely discharge him or send him on less-critical missions, something that would either send him home to where Steve was confined, or put him out of danger. Second, being queer, or partly queer, meant Bucky would probably stop trying to set them up on double dates with girls whenever he came home. And third… if he was gay… and Steve… 

His heart had begun pounding a furious tattoo against his ribcage, and Steve sucked in a harsh breath, his hands clenching at his sides. Bucky, of course, didn’t notice, still wallowing in self-pity. 

He did notice when Steve’s chair skidded back on it’s legs, pushed out carelessly by the man who had just been sitting in it. Doubt filled as Steve stalked towards Bucky and the other man looked up, his eyes quickly turning… fearful?

Bucky had leapt up and pressed his back against the wall, the farthest point from Steve. “C’mon, Stevie, I ain’t gonna do anythin’ to ya, you know that.”

Steve had stopped almost directly in front of him, barely a few inches spanning the space between their noses. Well, Steve’s nose and Bucky’s chest. Steve hated how much shorter and frailer he was, but didn’t let that get to him. “I know that, Buck,” he had whispered, watching in silent delight as Bucky breathed in sharply.

“Just trust me, huh, jerk?” Steve told him quietly and grabbed the collar of Bucky’s shirt, using it to steady himself as he went up onto his toes and very gently fit his mouth to Bucky’s.

He remembers so many more kisses happening after that: stolen pecks in alleyways, long and sleepy kisses in the mornings, friendly presses of lips when one entered a room the other was in. When Bucky left, Steve gave him one last kiss for good luck, then rode him like their walls weren’t paper thin and Bucky didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn. 

When he woke up, Bucky was gone, the warmth of their apartment gone with it. 

He remembers the blinding agony of the serum tearing apart his frail body and making it new, of seeing Bucky for the first time after, taking in the widened eyes and dart of his tongue licking over his lips. Steve had fucked Bucky against a wall that night. 

He remembers Bucky slipping his fingers, literally, their grip loosening further and further until Bucky was plummeting, screaming, to what Steve was sure was his inevitable death. 

He remembers hating himself, letting grief and pain and frustration and _anger_ , so much anger (at Bucky for leaving him, at the world, at the stupid title he bore, at the American citizens who only saw him as a show pony), and let them steer him, let them take control, until the only way out he saw was by driving a fucking plane into the ocean. 

He remembers the icy water closing over him, his breath being punched out of him by frigid-fingered fists, clawing and ripping until he passed out, letting the swirling darkness consume him. 

He remembers waking to everything the same but different, and running out of the damn hospital room and only getting more confused, because this was not the afterlife, thank you very much.

He remembers Tony being the first person that truly gets to him. He had gone and saw Peggy, and in her old and weathered state she was more like a photograph or memory coming to life than an actual person he knew, and Steve had hated himself for feeling that way for hours afterwards. 

But Tony… Tony was light and vibrant and beautiful and energetic, and Steve? Steve _hated_ him. 

Tony reminded him of Bucky so much it was painful, and Steve couldn’t stop himself from seeing his former lover in Tony, and it _drove him mad_. He missed Bucky so much, and when he was around Tony, the hurt nearly went away, and that aggravated Steve to no end, and put so much guilt into his mind that Steve began looking for faults, for cracks, forcing Tony to darken in his thoughts.

Tony Stark was no longer vibrant or gorgeous or a genius, he was an ex-weapon mongerer with a narcissistic personality disorder and so much arrogance he could fill a lake with it. He was no longer social or passionate about his work, but a workaholic who couldn’t keep his mouth shut or legs closed for a single soul on earth.

Steve forced himself to believe it, to shut out the Tony he saw in his peripheral vision, only see the one he was forcing himself to see. He’d thought he had it, he’d thought he’d finally done it and reduced Tony to an ugly person in his mind, but obviously not, because the next thing Steve knew, he was pounding Tony into the wall. 

The worst part, the part that made Steve break down later in his room and sob until the tears wouldn’t come, was that the whole time Steve was fucking Tony he didn’t think about Bucky at all. 

God, he was such an awful man. The one time he’d finally gave in and fucked Tony, he didn’t even take the moment to pretend it was Bucky he was slamming in, or Bucky’s hair he was tugging. No, he could only think of Tony, and the version of Tony he forced himself to think of nevertheless, too weak to own up to himself that maybe he didn’t think Tony was a whore at all, but maybe he was just falling a little too fast too hard, for a man with black hair that curled at the end, the man who made robots to be his friends, the man who’d put up with all of Steve’s bullshit and worked tirelessly to give him upgrades for his suit and armor, the man who was so damn alone and touch-starved he’d turn to a man he knew probably hated him for a few minutes of human contact. Steve didn’t hate Tony Stark, he didn’t, not really. He was just scared. 

He remembers the pit of his stomach dropping when he figured out Tony was pregnant before anyone else, because his mom was a nurse and he’d always been perceptive, remembers how he’d nearly broken down there and then, because

_Jesus Christ what had he done._

-

The muffled crunching of wood alerts Tony to the man standing in the doorway of their kitchen. There’s a dent in the wood from Steve’s fingers, deep grooves where the wood gave way and splintered apart. His hands are white-knuckled, and Tony knows if he doesn’t stop squeezing he’s going to carve a hole clean through the frame. 

“Shit,” Tony says under his breath. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, voice laced with uncertainty and… protection?

But Tony doesn’t hear Bucky. His eyes locked onto Steve’s, which have darkened considerably with emotion, maybe… sadness? Frustration? Fear? 

Whatever it is, it makes Tony want to run over and give him a hug, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hardens his own expression and turns to Bucky, giving him a firm kiss. “Let’s go,” he mutters, and gently leans his weight away from Bucky’s body, wincing and wobbling slightly as his legs and lower back protest loudly. 

Bucky, alarmed, shoots a hand out to try to steady him, but Tony grits his teeth and catches it before it can land on his shoulder, using it to tug Bucky out of the room and into the hallway. 

“What the fuck is his problem?” Tony growls as he stalks down the hall, his hand still firmly clenched around Bucky’s flesh one. 

“Tony,” Bucky says, and Tony ignores him.

“We should have left,” Tony grumbles, leaning against a wall and letting go of Bucky’s hand before sliding down to the floor and cradling his head in his elbows. “Fucking hell, did you see him just _standing_ there?”

“Tony,” Bucky says more urgently, and Tony finally looks up. 

“What?”

“I think he might have been… jealous,” Bucky says, and he looks pained, as if it hurts him to say this.

Tony snorts. “Of you? Not likely.”

“No, Tony, of _you_ ,” Bucky tells him quietly, sliding down to sit next to him and staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused.

Tony takes a moment to unravel that statement. “Of… me? Bucky?” He turns to Bucky, who winces. “Were you…? Did you two…?”

Bucky nods, and looks down at his hands. “I–I think we used to be real close,” he clears his throat, “before I fell,” he mumbles. He shakes his head violently and turns to Tony, eyes beseeching. “I swear it ended when I fell. Nothin’s happened, I promise.”

“No, I believe you,” Tony murmurs. He puts his head in his hands. “Do you remember anything else?” he asks, his words slightly muffled. 

He can more feel than see Bucky shake his head beside him. “No,” he whispers. “Only snippets, mostly, but even those are a bit fuzzy ‘round the edges.”

“What _do_ you remember?” Tony asks, and drags his eyes up from the safety of his knees, peeking through his elbows.

Bucky swallows. “Not much,” he says, and Tony can’t tell if it’s a lie. It probably is, but pushing will get him exactly nowhere, so he leaves it.

“What are we going to _do?_ ” he asks instead, and Bucky surprises him by grabbing Tony’s chin and tilting it up forcefully until Tony’s eyes are meeting his. “Nothing. We aren’t going to do a damn thing. I lo– _like_ you, and last I checked, doll, you like me right back. Steve isn’t going to get in between us,” he says firmly. Tony is still worried, but he can’t find it in him to do anything but nod, keeping his eyes on Bucky. 

Bucky’s eyes are the bluest gray Tony thinks he’s ever seen. They are the color of ocean waves in a storm, fog blanketing a bridge, storm clouds darkening the sky. They’re capable of holding so much emotion, Tony knows, but right now all he sees is determination darkening their stormy depths, the cold fury of focus.

“Okay,” he whispers, and lets himself lean onto Bucky’s shoulder, securing himself in the warmth there. 

It’s not until Bucky gently puts a hand on Tony’s bicep that Tony realizes he’s trembling. “Jesus, Stark,” he rasps, and there’s a note of controlled anger in his voice.

“What did he do to you?”

Tony burrows deeper into Bucky’s warmth, whispering a quiet, “later.”

-

“Sir, you have a visitor,” Jarvis’ calm voice says, floating through the workshop. It’s been about a month since Tony found out about the gender of his baby, and he and Bucky have gotten on like a house on fire. Bucky’d asked him out a few days after Steve and them in the kitchen, and Tony could have sworn his heart was about to beat of his chest when he told Bucky that yes, he’d very much like to date him, thank you very much. 

Bucky’d made it very clear that they had to take it slow, however, and there were still times when he just wanted to be alone. Tony’s heart ached for him during these times, but he’d obeyed Bucky’s wishes, and left him alone when he was told. 

One surprising aspect of their relationship so far was the lack of any sexual activity it had, and the thoughts Tony had on this. To be absolutely frank, he loved it. There was never any pressure, and he knew the wait was just as much for Bucky was it was for him. Sure, he _ached_ for it, but he also felt like extraordinarily good sex at the right time was better than bad sex because one of them felt pressured into it. 

Bucky would kiss him as often as Tony wanted, however, as long as they weren’t around the team, or in public. Tony also didn’t mind, as the kisses he got in private more than made up for it. 

The team more or less knew in the first week, but it was completely confirmed one morning, when a sleepy and caffeine-deprived Tony wandered blearily into the kitchen and accepted a fresh cup of coffee from Bucky with a quick kiss over Bucky’s jaw, which was more a skim of lips than anything else. Bucky and the team had immediately frozen, but Tony remained oblivious, murmuring quiet _thank you_ before stumbling down to his workshop.

“Care to share with the class?” Natasha had asked. Clint was looking at him curiously, an expression that was probably mirrored by Sam. Thor was back in Asgard and would be for a while, and Bruce hadn’t noticed a thing, too engrossed in his book. Steve…

Bucky didn’t know about Steve, because he refused to look and find out.

Bucky looked down at the ground and licked his lips. He shook his head, and set his own half-filled mug down on the counter, leaving the room nearly silently. The fact that he had headed in the direction of the workshop and not his own room definitely said something, however, and the team had left it at that. 

Now, a couple of weeks later, Tony looks up from the half-assembled motorcycle on his floor, scowling. “I told you not to let anyone… Rhodey!”

Rhodey grins, and opens his arms. Tony gets to his feet quickly and runs over, throwing himself–gently, because he has a baby–into his arms. “God, I’ve missed you so much,” he tells Rhodey, his words muffled. 

Rhodey chuckles and wraps his arms around Tony tighter. “I missed you too.”

He gently distangles them and holds Tony out at arm’s length, giving him a onceover. Rhodey looks pointedly at his stomach and the ever-growing bulge, raising his eyebrows. “What’s this about a baby Stark?”

Tony grins sheepishly. “Surprise?”

“I’ll say,” Rhodey snorts, and brings his hand down, hovering it over the bump in silent question. 

“It’s okay,” Tony says and smiles a little as Rhodey gently runs his hand over his cloth-covered stomach. 

“Are you excited?” he asks softly, before gently pulling away and sitting down on the workshop couch, draping his arms over the back.

Tony smiles a little. “There’s not much I can do at this point, so.” His easy grin slips a little. “I mostly just want to get this fucking pregnancy over,” he tells Rhodey honestly, his smile returning as the other man laughs. “My back hurts like a bitch.”

“I’m sure it does,” Rhodey says, and scoots over on the couch cushions, letting Tony sit down next to him.

“So…” Rhodey starts out carefully, and Tony watches him wearily, knowing what’s coming. “Steve…?”

“Is out of the picture,” Tony says firmly. “He… hasn’t really said anything, and I think that’s confirmation enough.” He looks away.

“But you don’t want it to be,” Rhodey presses, boring holes into his best friend with the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. He’s made himself clear,” Tony whispers, and he wants to tug his knees up to his chest desperately, but stops himself; he’s not about to behave like a child just because he’s upset.

Rhodey sighs. “Do you need me to punch him in fucking perfect face?”

Tony smiles a little in spite of himself. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“If you’re sure,”

“I am, Platypus.” Tony leans over and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You need to trust me on this. I was the one who made her,” he gestures to his stomach, “happen, so there’s no need to be upset at him.”

Rhodey wipes away the kiss, rolling his eyes affectionately, but then he grows more serious. “Tony, he uses your house and money and resources, not to mention your _time and technology_ , only to be a little shit about it and ungrateful in every sense of the word. This motherfucker turned around, fucked you, _impregnated you_ , then fucking _left_ , and you’re just okay with that?” Rhodey shakes his head. “A stretch, even for you, Tony,” he says, and Tony’s shocked into silence.

“You don’t… have the whole picture?” Tony protests weakly, and curses himself for phrasing it like a question.

“ _Tony,_ ” Rhodey says, and _fuck_ , he sounds disappointed.

“Fuck, I don’t know, Rhodey. It just doesn’t seem like a big deal to me. I practically had to _climb him like a tree_ to get him to do me, and now that I have her I can’t imagine…”

“Not,” Rhodey finishes for him, and sighs, then pauses, calculating. “Her?” he questions, and Tony grins widely, fishing around awkwardly in his pockets for the wrinkled and malleable picture.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the picture into Rhodey’s held out hand. Rhodey tilts his head, studying the black and white distorted blobs. His smile grows wider the longer he stares at it. “Everything’s going well in there?” he asks, never removing his eyes from the ultrasound photograph. He pulls his phone out with one hand, and clumsily takes a picture.

Tony nods happily and leans back against the couch. “Twenty-five weeks along,” he says, happy the conversation has changed subjects. He’s done talking about Steve, thank you very much. 

“That’s good,” Rhodey murmurs. He pats Tony’s knee a little and clears his throat, handing the photograph back. 

“Want to watch Top Gun?” Rhodey asks, heaving himself to his feet and offering a hand to Tony. 

Tony grinned up at him, accepting the hand. “Got tired of talking about your feelings, Platypus?” he teases.

“Maybe a little,” Rhodey grumbles, rolling his eyes fondly, and leads the way out of the workshop.

-

“Iceman and Maverick have so much sexual tension,” Tony mumbles around a mouthful of sandwich.

Rhodey grimaces as the food in Tony’s mouth is shown, but nods slowly. “‘M just here for the airplanes,” he says, making sure he’s swallowed all of his food before he speaks, unlike some heathens. 

Tony swallows his own mouthful, hard, before throwing his head back and laughing. “You would be,” he teases.

Rhodey shrug. “Air force,” he says as a way of explanation, and Tony grins, if possible, wider.

“You know, if you gave me–”

“I am _not_ allowing you anywhere _near_ my plane, Tony. It’s perfectly fine, thank you,” Rhodey interrupts.

Tony pouts, even though Rhodey’s gaze is trained on the screen and likely won’t see the expression.

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, no.”

Tony huffs. “Yeah, okay, fine. Your crappy military plane is safe from me.”

Rhodey turns and smiles sweetly. “Thank you.”

Someone snorts behind them, and Tony lazily looks back, grinning widely when he sees Bucky. “Bucky,” he says, and motions to the floor in front of his couch. 

Rhodey looks back as well, and does a double-take when he sees the super soldier. “I–hello,” he says, and Bucky forces the edge of his mouth to go up in a smile. 

“Hello,” he says, just as awkwardly, just as politely.

“Who are you?” Rhodey asks casually, leaning back and peering at Bucky. 

“My name’s Bucky,” Bucky says, and his mind presents him with a new memory, one from his first year of schooling, when he had to say the very same thing to his teacher and the class. He’s somehow more nervous for this introduction, however. 

Rhodey opens his mouth, looking ready to go off on a whole tangent, but it’s Tony’s turn to interrupt him. “Leave him alone, Rhodey. He’s my _boyfriend_ ,” he says, obviously preening.

Rhodey turns wide eyes away from Barnes and onto his best friend instead. “Are you being serious?”

“So serious,” Tony responds, and gestures to the floor more meaningfully until Bucky sighs and goes over, sitting down and pressing back into the couch cushion, settling himself between Tony’s legs. 

“I–when did this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” Tony says, and rests his fingers on Bucky’s hair, just letting them sit there.

“And, and…” Rhodey seems to be struggling to find the words. “You’re just _together_ now?”

Bucky grunts affirmitably, and Rhodey’s eyes narrow. “Tony, is this man going to be another Steve?” he asks bluntly, and Tony’s fingers tense on Bucky’s head, while Bucky freezes completely, the muscles in his back bunching up as his whole body goes taut.

“Rhodey,” Tony says, turning his head to meet the other man’s eyes. When he speaks, his voice is sharp and not at all relaxed, not like it was before. “What the fuck.”

Rhodey throws up his hands. “Just asking.” 

“Jesus, Rhodey, let it go. What’s happened, happened, and I trust Bucky,” Tony tells him firmly.

“I know,” Rhodey says gently. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I won’t,” Tony promises, and there’s so much conviction in his voice that Rhodey can’t help but believe him.

-

Tony’s set Rhodey up on the fifth floor, the floor specifically reserved for when he or Pepper visit. It’s cozy and homey, and the only floor with any sort of pre-planned personal decoration. For example, on Rhodey’s bedside table there are three photographs, all framed and glossy moments in time from MIT and after.

There’s one with the two of them standing in front of a lamppost for seemingly no reason at all, Rhodey’s arm thrown over Tony’s smaller figure, that’s being absolutely _dwarfed_ by a grey MIT sweatshirt.

The other is of the two of them again, Tony in the background, slumped over several open textbooks and diagrams, fast asleep, while Rhodey mugs for the camera. It’s a selfie Rhodey teased Tony with for several weeks, and he’s shocked Tony bothered to frame it. 

The last is of Tony, him, and Pepper, at the only social event Tony and Pepper ever convinced him to attend. His expression is the absolute picture of disgruntled, and though Rhodey can’t remember the exact thoughts he was having in that moment of time, he can imagine it has something to do with being shoved into a monkey suit. Pepper’s stunning as always in a stunning red gown that drapes off her shoulder, and she’s clearly holding in a laugh like the gorgeous man next to her, probably at Rhodey’s antics.

All three are lovely, and Rhodey makes a mental note to take them when he leaves so he has some photos to remember them by. His bed is made perfectly, as always, and Rhodey neatly sets his bag down, before realizing he didn’t have his phone. He must have left it on the workshop couch, then, after taking the picture of the ultrasound. Yet another thing he wants to remember. 

He shakes his head at his own clumsiness as he leaves his room, closing the door with a soft _snick_ behind him. He decides to take the stairs instead of the elevator, looking forward to a little walk in the peaceful tower after dark. 

The halls are dimly lit and he moves through them quickly, trusting his internal map of the place to get him to his destination safely. One thing he doesn’t anticipate, however, is the other person at the end of the hall.

Initially, Rhodey freezes, but it doesn’t last. Rhodey straightens his back almost unconsciously, standing as straight as possible. The other man takes no notice and continues smiling as he approaches him, a smile on his face.

“Colonel Rhodes,” he greets, and his voice is friendly, amiable. It is obvious that he doesn’t sense the tension thickening in the air, or tightness of the colonel’s shoulders.

“Captain,” Rhodey seethes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I’m looking forward to y’all tearing steve apart in the comments
> 
> Wait but be a little nice, this is the beginning of his redemption


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawing and uh some sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's late

Rhodey holds his gaze, his eyes boring into Steve’s. Steve looks taken aback, and very confused.

“You want to explain yourself?” Rhodey asks, and there’s barely controlled anger behind his words, anger that is kept in check only by the respect he has for Tony.

A shadow flickers over Steve’s face but it disappears faster than Rhodey can fully process it. “I’m sorry?” he asks politely, and fuck but Rhodey wants to kick him.

“You damn well know what,” Rhodey growls, and Steve’s jaw tightens. 

“I really, really don’t,” Steve sighs, and he seems to be growing a little frustrated.

 _Good,_ Rhodey thinks, _let him be a little uncomfortable._

Rhodey raises an eyebrow challengingly. “I know what you did,” he hisses, “to Tony.”

Something flashes in Steve’s eyes, several things, actually, but once again, the flickers of emotion are too fast for Rhodey to make sense of them. Steve swallows, hard. “What do you want from me?” he finally asks.

Rhodey opens his mouth, ready to fire back scathingly, but what Steve just said suddenly catches up with him, and Rhodey… Rhodey doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that. 

_What do you want from me?_

That’s a good question, actually. What _did_ Rhodey want from Steve? And that’s when he realized… he might be pissed at Steve for what he did, he might hate him for all the emotional pain he put Tony through, but it’s over now. Tony seems happy with the other centenarian in the tower, and he seems to have made peace with the fact that he’s going to have a baby, even showing a little excitement. It’s obvious that Steve not being there for him and his growing daughter is tearing him up inside, but that’s because Tony Stark has always gotten attached to people too fast. Rhodey is confident he’ll get over it, especially with Bucky now in the picture.

So… that brings him back to Steve’s question. What _does_ he want from Steve? Nothing, he realizes, except…

“What’s _your_ side of the story?” Rhodey asks, and watches as Steve shivers bodily, before fixing his eyes to Rhodey’s temple, almost but not quite meeting his eyes, a tiny detail that does not escape Rhodey’s notice.

“My side doesn’t matter,” Steve says firmly, and Rhodey is suddenly thinking of his conversation with Tony, when the other man had said nearly the same thing. Self-deprecating idiots, the lot of them.

“Humor me,” Rhodey insists, and leans against the wall, cocking an eyebrow. 

“There’s nothing to say,” Steve says through gritted teeth, and Rhodey forces himself to take a few breaths, calming himself. 

“You don’t get to fucking say that,” he hisses. “Do you _know_ what you put Tony through?”

Steve unclenches his jaw with a yank. “Better than anyone,” he says sadly. 

Rhodey throws his hands up in the air and rolls his eyes. “We’re going in circles here, Rogers. Give me a fucking answer if you want a chance at any semblance of a friendship with Tony.”

Steve looks up sharply. “What?”

Rhodey sighs. “Come on, Rogers.”

Steve stops, and finally, _finally_ Rhodey recognizes the flash of anger that crosses his features. “No,” he forces out, “this is none of your business. I understand that Tony is your best friend, but this was my mistake, and definitely not your battle. Good day, Colonel,” he says, and swiftly leaves, disappearing from sight. 

-

Steve finds himself in front of his bedroom door, his hand on the doorknob. He’s not sure when he entered his and Bucky’s floor, but now that he’s here, it’s surprisingly easy to let himself in and cross the sparse room to his bedside table where there’s a locked drawer. He unhooks the key from where it hung behind his headboard and wiggles it into the lock, pulling it open and revealing half a dozen sketchbooks. 

There’s a yellow one full of drawings of mundane things like a snail after rainfall or a pretty flower, and page after page of scribbles and shapes for practice. It’s his ‘future’ sketchbook, the one he opens most frequently and has the least amount of complicated emotions associated with it.

The second one is a deep green, and it’s specifically for his team. Clint jumping off a building, Bruce calmly sipping his tea while he reads the news off of a tablet, Natasha running her fingers through Thor’s hair and braiding it calmly, her again as she tests her widow bites in the training room, Tony watching approvingly.

The third is grey, and contains any memories or scenes he might remember from before the ice. Drawing after sketch after painting of the Howlies, his mother, Peggy, the girls Bucky would try to set him up with, his old Captain America uniform, and so much more peek out from between the pages. Steve spends an inordinate amount of time combing through it and smiling, mostly trying to distract him from the last three he has to go through. Eventually, though, he has to close the book with a watery smile and pick up the remaining sketchbooks, his heart doing something funny as he opens the first one.

There’s a blue one for Bucky, and Bucky only. Bucky gazing up at him, Bucky looking off into the distance, Bucky carrying his sniper rifle, Bucky wearing his uniform proudly, Bucky with his eyes closed and mouth slack with pleasure… Steve blushes a bit, but doesn’t close the page, instead letting his eyes linger. He fell in love with Bucky in the forties, probably before. In the quiet of his room it’s all too easy to admit to himself that he never really fell out of it. 

He picks up the small canvas bag he has tucked in the back of the drawer and fishes out a drawing pencil, sketching out some quick scenes he’ll return to later, but ones that he wants to remember. There are three scenes that he crudely maps out, trying to capture little moments in time of his best friend.

When he’s done he closes the book and stares at the plain blue cover for a long time, shakingly convincing himself to do what he’s done so many times before: reach for the red sketchbook, open it, and pour over every page. This one is nearly as worn as the previous, though not because it was opened so frequently. In fact, Steve has only drawn in this particular sketchbook five times, but each time has spent hours carefully filling the blank pages. This one holds pencil sketchings of long lines and compact muscles, watercolors of whiskey brown eyes staring off into the distance, vibrant drawings done in pastels of bright, bright red and captivating gold. 

One time, he had walked down to Tony’s lab to ask about a tear in his suit, wondering if he would be mad if Steve just mended it himself, when he saw the two men in Tony’s workshop. They were clearly arguing with him, asking for something, and Tony was just smiling at them. Tony was smiling at them with his stupid self-deprecating grin, where his eyes would crinkle at the corners charmingly but the light would disappear from within them. The one that clearly conveyed that no matter how much anyone else might hate him, they’d never hate him more than he hated himself. 

Steve had hated that, had let the guilt and self-disgust rise up within him until he simply couldn’t stand it and had to leave. He’d forgotten all about his suit, all about whatever he had gone to ask Tony, about everything that wasn’t the bitter smile gracing Tony’s lips. 

_Was he the cause of it?_ he had wondered, _Was he the reason Tony wore it like a mask, keeping himself protected while pushing everyone else away?_

These thoughts and the self-loathing that accompanied them was as unexpected as it was unwelcome because, after all, what did it matter? What did it matter if Steve was part of the reason Tony felt like he had to hide behind that awful, awful smile? It wasn’t like he was going to change his behavior towards him, because Steve had really already gone too far in his whole act of hating him. To go back would seem suspicious. 

But he still couldn’t help but let his mind wander to times in the future where maybe he did let himself feel like this, did let himself be drawn into the magnet that is Tony Stark. It had felt like cheating on Bucky, to imagine him being the one to offer Tony his coffee in the mornings, let the other man curl up against his chest as he sipped the steaming liquid, to imagine hitching a ride on Iron Man to get back home from a mission instead of taking the quinjet, to imagine slipping his hand into another, slightly smaller and more calloused, hand. 

And yet, he did. He imagined them over and over. He drew some of his fantasies, some in full color and others in black and white. He even drew the man himself in situations that actually happened, like Tony in the suit with the faceplate up and eating a taco over a sticky plastic table, or doing something in his workshop, muscles bunching and flexing as he worked.

He doesn’t love Tony, he _doesn’t_. He just _can’t_. But sometimes… sometimes he wonders. 

Steve closes the sketchbook with a snap, breathing out slowly and rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. God _damn_ it. 

_Fuck._

Was he really the person to contemplate on whether he loved a man or not when his old boyfriend was _living in the room next door?_

Hell, said boyfriend was even dating the man. God, what was his life?

The final sketchpad (black), surprisingly, seemed oddly easy to pick up after the last two. He knew he really shouldn’t be nonchalant about this one, but after the last two, it seemed easy to look through in comparison. He flips it open to the second page, where he always puts his first drawing in any notebook.

That was his first mistake.

Harsh black lines of charcoal have been drawn over the page, jagged at the edges and chaotic in placement. There’s fuzzy lines of light yellow and white to show the sunlight stabbing through the water, reaching what depths it could, and dark blue, cobalt blue, sky blue, murky blue, navy blue, so. Much. Blue. 

His second mistake is continuing to turn the pages, continuing to live out his worst memories and fears in lifelike drawings. Dammit it all to hell, he _knew_ this one was for pain, but he just had to open it, didn’t he?

There’s Dr Erskine, lying dead on the floor. Then Bucky, falling off the train, his face twisted in horror and fright as his hand slowly slips from Steve’s grasp, the pure fear in his eyes as they lock onto Steve’s, pleading for something Steve can’t give him. There’s his mother, sick, coughing up blood as she clings to a life that won’t hold. Then there’s Peggy, old and withered in her casket, quite literally a ghost of the woman Steve once knew. 

It goes on like this: drawing after drawing of the most painful moments of Steve’s life, moments he had to put out on paper because he felt that he would surely kill himself if they only lived in his head, replaying forever on a sinister loop.

The book is unfinished, but the scenes that _are_ depicted are more than enough. Just like Clint said once in response to refusing several new arrow proposals from Tony, only choosing two varieties: _Quality over quantity._

Steve snorts, but then stops when it makes his eyes burn. These memories are few, but they’re rich in _quality_ all right. 

He reaches what he thinks is the last picture, one of Bucky’s back as he walks away from Steve, going back to the war and _away from Steve, dammit_ , when he sees a bit of color poking through and he frowns, because this is the last drawing he remembers doing. 

He turns the page and freezes, because he definitely forgot about this one. He must have done it in the rush of everything because the sketch is unfinished, hurried, crude, but the emotion it captures…

Steve barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, sketchbook open to a picture of Tony, head thrown against the wall, mouth slack in pleasure, but eyes locked dizzyingly onto Steve’s. 

He looks like a man who’s gotten everything he wanted, but at a price that’s far too high.

Jesus Christ. What did Steve do to this man?

-

“Bucky,” Tony says conversationally from the other side of the workshop. 

Bucky slowly looks up from his arm. “Yes?” he asks, somewhat wearily, because Tony is leaning back in his chair at a well-lit table, a pout gracing his lips. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s about to come. 

“Rub my feet?” Tony asks hopefully, and Bucky internally sighs because dammit, he knew it. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, and forces the corner of his mouth to not twitch when Tony beams at him. He gets to his knees before his boyfriend and avoids any stray thoughts about the position, instead focusing on gently kneading Tony’s feet through his socks. 

When he looks up, Tony has a thoughtful expression on his face and looks slightly troubled. Bucky raises his eyebrows, and Tony smiles when he sees them. “Anythin’ I can help you with?” Bucky grunts, and any cloud that was hanging over the other man darkens before fleeing, leaving him smiling once again, albeit slightly more wickedly. 

“You know,” Tony says, and hooks a finger under Bucky’s chin. “I can think of several things you can help me with.”

Bucky rolls his eyes to cover the shiver of want that rattles his very bones, replying with a vague: “Oh, is that so?”

“It is so,” Tony says, and his breath hitches when one of Bucky’s hands–his metal one, good God–slides up from his foot to his calf, lightly grasping the muscle.

“It’s been a while,” Bucky admits huskily, looking up at the other man from between his eyelashes.

“Yeah, no shit,” Tony snorts. “At this point, though, it’ll take me like a half a minute. Goddamn, but I’ve been so fucking horny,” he groans. “Pregnancy fucking _sucks_.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bucky murmurs, and reaches the hand on Tony’s calf to stroke lightly over the bump, before getting to his knees properly.

Tony laughs breathlessly, but then cuts himself off with a low moan when Bucky starts undoing his pants single-handedly. His flesh hand strokes Tony’s thigh softly while his metal pushes aside fabric and buttons and zippers.

Tony hisses when Bucky finally wraps his hand around his flesh, and Bucky lets go of him as if burnt, looking up at him with questioning and slightly alarmed eyes. “Alright?” he asks, almost uncertainly, already pulling away.

“Yeah, just a little cold,” Tony pants. “God, this is pathetic; you haven’t even touched me, Jesus.”

“Takin’ the Lord’s name in vain a little casually, don’t ya think?” Bucky asks casually, but can’t keep the corner of his mouth twitching when Tony looks down at him, a worried and apologetic expression on his face. “Jus’ kidding,” he says, laughing a little. “If you’re not swearing, I’m not doing it right.”

Tony smiles back, and then catches sight of Bucky’s metal hand, now resting on the man’s thigh. He nearly moans from imagining it sliding up and down his cock, cool metal scales rippling up and down sensitive skin.

He reaches behind himself and opens a drawer, pulling out a battered bottle of lube. Thank goodness he had made the decision to work at this table. He tosses it to Bucky, who catches it with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, rolling his eyes.

“Just jerk me off, asshole,” he tells Bucky, and shivers in anticipation when Bucky chuckles quietly but pours out some onto his fingers, rubbing it to make it warmer. He reaches for Tony’s cock with his flesh hand, this time, and Tony very gently stops him.

“Can you, uh…”

Bucky raises both his eyebrows this time. “You want my metal hand?”

“I’m a mechanic,” Tony snaps back, and he can feel a flush threatening to warm his cheeks. Bucky simply raises his eyebrows further but complies, and this time Tony doesn’t hold back his moan.

“God, yeah, like that,” he groans as Bucky’s hand begins moving faster, his thumb carefully rubbing places that make fresh noises tumble out of Tony. Tony looks at the ceiling and closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of being touched by another human being, by something that isn’t his own hand, something as _beautiful_ as Bucky’s metal hand, his own creation…

He startles when the hand is removed, then widens his eyes when warm, wet heat replaces the cool slide of metal, enveloping his cock. “Bucky,” he chokes out at the sight that greets him when he looks down and grips the edge of the table with a white-knuckled hand, steadying himself against a new wave of pleasure.

Bucky hums in response and Tony moans, nearly losing it right there. “God, yes,” he gasps, and Bucky pulls off quickly with a wet _pop_ to smirk at him, before taking his down as far as he could go, deepthroating Tony with all he was worth.

Tony gasps, swears a blue streak, and finishes, his eyes shutting tightly as his back arches and he empties his load into Bucky’s sweet sweet mouth, shuddering in pleasure as Bucky just keeps sucking him off through it. 

When he pulls off, Tony blearily watches Bucky’s throat work as he swallows, and suddenly finds himself needing that glistening mouth, streaked with spit, lube, and come, on his own. He yanks Bucky’s head forward and kisses him with all he has, registering the other man’s happy hum as he kisses back, huge warm hands rubbing themselves all over Tony’s chest. 

“God you’re so good at that,” Tony says, and groans when Bucky reaches a hand down to grasp himself through his jeans. “Would you like me to take care of that for you, soldier?” he asks, smirking, and Bucky tries to laugh but gets cut off by his own moan.

“Yes, please,” he grunts and Tony swats his hand away from his fly and opens it himself, pulling out Bucky’s cock and giving it a few strokes. He stands up with a grunt and directs Bucky with gentle pressure on his hips until he’s leaning against the table’s edge, his hands braced behind him.

Tony coats his fingers in lube and wraps a hand around him, squeezing very gently before slicking it up and down Bucky’s cock. He reaches up on his tip toes and kisses Bucky, lazily sliding his tongue into the other man’s mouth as Bucky gasps in pleasure, before trailing kisses down his neck and sucking a mark into his clavicle. 

As it turns out, Bucky Barnes is quiet when he’s getting off, the only noises breaking free from him being soft gasps, breathy moans, and a quiet ‘uh’. Tony desperately wants to hear what he sounds like when he’s getting fucked, but he figures there’s always time for that later.

All too soon Bucky is gasping into his mouth urgently, his hands trembling on the table as his back arches and he moans long and low, emptying all over Tony’s hand and the silver of skin his rucked up shirt revealed.

Tony laughs breathlessly as Bucky hisses and swats away Tony’s hands from his oversensitive cock, but then soothes any sting of the motion by pulling Tony to his chest and nuzzling his nose into the black curls there. 

“That was nice,” Tony sighs. 

Bucky hums in agreement, and runs his hands up and down Tony’s back. “You’re good at that,” he murmurs, and Tony laughs a little again, pulling away to look into the other man’s eyes.

“I think it’s just been a while,” Tony says. He cuddles back into Bucky’s chest. “God, I feel like a high schooler again, finishing so fast.” 

Bucky chuckles at that, and a rumbling feeling of happiness shoots through Tony’s heart. Jesus, he’s falling fast.

-

Steve doesn’t sleep that night, but he does think. A lot. By the end of it, he’s decided several things. One, it’s silly to be afraid to look at his own drawings, his own memories. It’s true that when he had first drawn them it had been somewhat therapeutic; one of his desperate attempts to reconcile what memories he had, in hope of making sense of the crazy new world he had woken up in.

It had helped, a little, when he didn’t have any new memories out of the ice, and he treasured each memory from his past, no matter how horrible, but now? Now it was just terrible. Now he had experiences to relate them too, and remembering anything but the happy bits was a chore. Not only that, but Bucky was here, too. He no longer had to spend hours sketching the lines of the man’s face, or the graceful dips of his legs; he had the real one up for viewing any time he liked. 

That had really been the stopping point, Steve thought. Where he’d drawn at least thrice a week before Tony had told him the Winter Soldier was Bucky and Bucky was the Winter Soldier, there’d suddenly been no time to draw while looking for him, and he’d never quite picked it up again.

Maybe it was time, Steve mused the next morning, rolling a pencil between his fingers. The weight of it should have felt familiar, but all he could think of–rolling the slim cylinder between his thumb and forefinger–was how he’d used it to draw so many terrible things. 

Still, Steve had to stop being a coward at one point or another. So he clenched the damn thing in his hands and gritted his teeth, pulling the yellow sketchbook toward himself and opening it to a random page. He started with circles and various geometric shapes, warming up his hand, before he grew tired of it and shut the book, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, before grabbing another book.

As soon as he started drawing, he felt a rush of relief, and a sense of failure. As the body started to form in broad strokes of his pencil, he felt almost dirty, like he did as a teenager in the middle of the night, a hand down his pants and his mother sleeping in the next room over. 

But then again, these were his private sketchbooks and no one had ever seen them, something he planned to keep that way (at least for the *cough* sensitive ones). Still, it was with gritted teeth that he tentatively started the drawing, the details flowing from his memory to the page effortlessly, pathetically.

It wasn’t just that one time that he drew, however. After beginning the initial plunge, it was all too easy to become enraptured into the task of categorizing then cataloging his memories. It was fun to have a hobby again, actually. And as the weeks began to pass, he kept at it more and more, even bringing his sketchbooks with him to the common rooms to draw by the huge windows, sketching the skyline or the bird nest he could see tucked into the rafters if he craned his head just right.

As he got more confident and began to see it as less of a forced activity and more an enjoyable one, he even brought his yellow one to the breakfast table and drew calmly while Bruce made breakfast, although he very carefully placed himself in the corner away from everybody else, his back angled to the wall so they couldn’t see what he was doing. Clint asked to see a couple of times, and Steve could tell Bucky wanted to, but he never did, which Steve was grateful for. Clint just eventually stopped asking.

It was freeing to have something for himself, something he could do. Steve found that one thing he enjoyed especially was stuffing some sketchbooks into a bag slung over his shoulder and then going for a walk with them.

He would find himself stopping at a bench and just spending _hours_ on a bench with some colored pencils or charcoal, content with the knowledge that no one was here to see his drawings or judge him, no one was there to peek over his shoulder and see a little too much. 

He drew and drew and drew and poured his heart out doing it, every emotion he ever had about his subject clearly depicted on the page for anyone to decipher. He should have known his safety wouldn’t last.

-

It was an accident. 

Bucky swears it was.

Clint had asked him, somewhat shyly, if he’d like to run a training simulation with him and Bucky, heart leaping at the request, had said yes, excited for an opportunity to connect with someone on the team that wasn’t his best friend or his boyfriend. Also, Clint seemed like the best option. Becoming friends with a scary russian spy who gave him the jeepers and was entirely too dangerous for his liking and a man with the potential to become a giant green rage monster was simply a little too much for him.

So, he’s walking through the common room at six in the evening, headed towards the training grounds, when he spots something bright red on one of the tables by the big window. 

Curiosity winning over his need to be punctual, Bucky wanders over and picks it up, turning it in his hands. It’s some kind of notebook, the spine cracked and the cover well-worn. 

Just before he cracks it open he registers that, wait a minute, this belongs to Steve. He’s seen Steve around with these, always doodling in them; everyone had. While Bucky was thrilled that his friend was reverting back to his artistic tendencies, he also felt a little disappointed and… betrayed? Maybe? That Steve didn’t see fit to show him anything.

It’s why it’s only with a small pang of _Steve, I’m sorry_ , that he cracks the book open, takes a peek, and promptly drops it. He flies to the ground to pick it up, turning it the right way and gazing, his jaw dropped, at the drawing there.

It’s Tony drawn in life-like detail as he bends over something in his workshop and hammers it, a scene clearly from before Bucky met the man. He flips the pages, and a pit opens in his stomach as he slowly realizes every. Single. Damn. One. was of his boyfriend.

There’s Tony in the Iron Man suit with the faceplate down as he smiles disarmingly at someone, Tony in a proper fabric suit arguing with a few other men in his workshop, Tony looking absolutely _flawless_ in a suit and tie at some event or another, a red haired woman Bucky recognizes as Pepper from pictures hanging off his arm, although she was sketched in hurried, uneven lines, as if Steve hadn’t wanted her in the picture. 

It’s all very strange and confusing and baffling, until it isn’t.

Bucky freezes his feverish flipping through the pages and stares at one, taking in every detail hungrily. It’s a simple portrait of Tony leaning against a countertop casually, in a _The Doors_ t-shirt and jeans, looking over at someone with a small smile. It’s a position Bucky has seen him in multiple times, and it just _screams_ Tony Stark.

The problem is, however, that it was so heart-wrenchingly obvious that the artist was falling in love with the muse, or already there.

The smile is a little too direct and too warm, a little too much attention is paid to detail, and everything about the fucking thing indicates clearly that this is someone the artist has memorized in and out, evey dip, every curve, every bump.

Bucky’s heart sinks and he turns the page, hoping for something different on the next one, maybe a harmless drawing that would not point to _Steve Rogers is in love with Tony Stark!_ , but no.

The next one is worse. Way worse. 

Rivulets of water run down Tony’s face in gentle strokes, and the man’s wrists are pinned, hair plastered to his head. His chest is bare and his muscles strain, abs contracting and flexing with some sort of movement. His mouth is slack in pleasure, his eyes half-lidded, and Bucky can almost taste the moan. 

He swallows thickly and closes his eyes, because no no no, Tony, _no_.

It can’t be. But it _is_. 

It’s with a special kind of horror that Bucky fills in all the missing places, all the gaps in Tony and Steve’s relationship, their hesitant avoidance of one another, the kiss on the hanger where Tony had looked a million kinds of lost, the way Tony had almost collapsed after seeing Steve watch them kiss, and…

The baby. Of course. 

Bucky barely registers climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. Before he knows it he’s slamming the door open to Steve’s room, watching the man jump about a foot in the air as he takes in his visitor. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve says, smiling a little. “You scared m–”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, in an even and measured voice that does not match the hurricane in his thoughts _at all_. “What the _fuck?_ ” he asks, holding up the sketchbook open to the page of Tony being pounded into the wall. He holds it in his metal hand tightly because his real one is shaking too hard for the picture to be visible. 

All the color drains from Steve’s face. “I can explain,” he gasps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are welcome, please don't tear Steve apart too much, and also I'm doing my best to answer the other ones in other chapters; I'll get around to it I promise :)
> 
> also, at the end of this chapter, Tony is about 25 weeks along!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of circular conversations, this is my worst work yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's late again ;(
> 
> TW: very brief mention of suicide (like he just thinks about it), if you want to avoid it just skip Steve thinking about shit after Bucky leaves and head to the next break :)

Steve sees the bright red of the sketchbook in Bucky’s hand, his heightened vision easily picking out the drawing the pages are flipped to, and feels a single strike of horror, cold and unwelcome, shoot down his spine. 

Bucky looks lost, and confused, and _furious_ , and Steve would have felt bad for the shock he must have dealt himself by opening the book, but fuck, Steve can’t think a single thougt over the pounding of his heart and the sudden roar of blood in his ears.

“I can explain,” he hears himself stammering out, inwardly cringing as it comes out sounding like a pathetic plea instead of a confident statement. He figures he might be able to say something else, _anything else_ , that will soften the blow Bucky’s dealt him, but one look at his best friend erases the thought entirely.

Bucky’s eyes are fierce as they meet his, and any excuses or further pleas die on Steve’s tongue, quelled by the stormy grey eyes pinning his own. Bucky can see right through him, right through the bullshit, and Steve’s never hated him nor loved him more than in that moment, because dammit, sometimes even America’s golden boy needed to be reminded he wasn’t all that.

“I don’t want your excuses,” Bucky tells him softly, and his arm comes swinging down to hang limply by his side, the sketchbook held by two metal fingers loosely. He looks tired now, drawn and sad.

“I know–” Steve tries to say, but Bucky interrupts him.

“Did you know,” he whispers, “I recognized you?”

Steve pauses mid-sentence, mouth slightly agape. “When?” he manages, though he’s pretty sure he knows.

Bucky laughs derisively. “Every time fuckin’ time I saw that uniform. At first didn’ even know it was you. Didn’ know why I recognized it.”

“And after you saw it was me in it?” Steve asks, his breath catching.

“Scared the living shit out of me,” Bucky whispers. “I was so scared that it wasn’t you, that you were just a hallucination or a...a simulation of some kind. A test. They did that sometimes,” he admits, and God, Steve wants to curl around him, protect him from the wrong-doings of the world.

“I’m here, though,” Steve tells him just softly. “I’m not a figment of your imagination. I’m _real_.”

“I _know_ Stevie,” Bucky chokes out, and he stares at the ground. “But it isn’t _you_.”

“Yes it is,” Steve says firmly. “I’m the same I always was.”

“No,” Bucky says, and he sounds _broken_. “You aren’t, and I’m not either, Steve.”

“For a second…” Bucky starts, and swallows heavily. His next words come out in a whisper. “For a second I thought I had my best friend back. For a second, I thought you were there to tell me it was all a bad dream, that I still had my arm, that I hadn’t really been through seventy years of torture, that I hadn’t really killed hundreds of innocent people. I figured everything would be alright,” Bucky says, his voice cracking as he swallows his tears.

“It wasn’t, was it.”

Bucky laughs again, and this time it’s full of self-loathing and deprecation, and it’s just like Tony’s smile; it makes Steve’s fists itch for a good fight, itch to find the person who was the cause of those smiles and laughs and pound them into the ground.

“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “You know the funny thing, though?”

Steve looks up at him and nods, gesturing for him to continue. 

“I made peace with it. I knew that even if you were still pure and I was now fucked up, you were still my Steve. With you there, I thought nothing could touch me. And for a while, nothing could.”

“But something did,” Steve rasps out.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees sadly. “Tony. He was like this... _light_ , Stevie,” he says, trying to describe the man. “He was so _vibrant._ I remember asking myself, _how could anyone with so much energy survive in this world?_ It was just so… bleak, for me,” Bucky mutters. “But he… he made it better.”

Steve sucks in a breath because that was _exactly_ how Tony had made him feel, too. Tony Stark had been like a breath of fresh air when he was drowning in a sea of unfamiliar sounds and sights and _no Bucky._ He had soothed that pit in his stomach a little, made it not feel so _empty_ , all the time. 

Steve’s sorry, now. He’s so sorry. 

There’s still a pit in his stomach, a pressing weight on his conscience, but now it’s for the very man who used to protect him from it. Now it holds all the affection and appreciation he should have given Tony Stark, all the times he should have said _thank you for helping make sense of this world,_ or _Bucky’s gone, but I have you._ It’s empty, because Steve was too narrow minded to begin even a friendship, one he had desperately needed.

At the time, he’d dealt with it the only way his new body would let him; physically. Sometimes he still wished he was a skinny teenager in Brooklyn, with dreams even bigger than the bustling city he lived in. 

“You obviously had the same reaction,” Bucky says, startling Steve out of his thoughts and, just like that, Steve feels as though he’s been thrust into frigid water. 

Bucky holds up the sketchbook so Steve can see, and flips through the pages, exposing drawing after drawing of Tony Stark doing various things. “He made you feel the same. Like there was hope in the world. When he talks to you, you feel like you’re the only person that exists in the world, put in his mind before everyone else, including him.”

A ripple of unease slithers under Steve’s skin as he flounders mentally, trying to fish for an answer to give Bucky. He settles for just nodding with bated breath, awaiting his verdict.

“You didn’t tell me you knocked him up and left him,” Bucky says gruffly, suddenly looking up and meeting Steve’s eyes. Any trace of wistfulness was gone from their stormy depths, fury taking its place.

Steve swallows heavily. “It wasn’t like that,” he manages

Bucky delicately arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Enlighten me.” He throws the sketchbook at Steve’s feet and can’t help the sadistic curl of satisfaction as Steve flinches.

“Look, Buck, he kept pushing me and I snapped, okay? I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Oh, yeah, your dick just ‘accidentally’ slipped into him,” Bucky growls. 

Steve clenches his jaw. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Bucky hisses. “What the fuck were you thinking? You left him when he needed you, Steve. You left him pregnant and _alone_. How are you justifyin’ this?”

“I had to find you,” Steve says, eyes pleading. 

“Why? Why, Steve? Why couldn’t you have just left me? I’d still be there after you and Tony sorted your shit out.” It’s a lie, of course. Bucky wouldn’t have been there. But of course, Steve doesn’t need to know that.

Steve continues meeting his eyes but stays silent.

“That man is in love with you, Stevie. You know that?” Bucky knew this was crossing a line and Tony would likely hate him forever for this, but damnit, it was necessary for Steve to hear.

“He can’t,” Steve rasps, suddenly desperate. “He can’t, Buck, he _can’t_ love me.”

“And why not?” Bucky snaps.

“Because he’s with _you_.”

Bucky snorts and Steve flinches at the sound. “Carrying your child,” he says, and shakes his head. “God, how pathetic.”

“Buck…” Steve pleads. 

“I don’t…” Bucky looks down, clenches his hands into fists. “I don’t know what to fucking _do_.”

“ _Nothing,_ Steve answers, almost begging. “Don’t do _anything._ ”

“So I’m just supposed to forget I saw this?” Bucky snaps. “Were you even planning to tell me?”

The answering silence is enough. 

Bucky laughs a little, raking a hand jerkingly through his hair. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “Don’t do anything with the information that my boyfriend was knocked up by my old boyfriend–” Steve twitches at the title, but Bucky couldn’t give less shits, “–and neither of them were planning on telling me, leading me to believe it was some shitty one night stand Tony was never going to see again.”

Bucky pauses, stopping the rhythmic motion of tearing his hand through his hair and yanking on it out of frustration instead. 

“You love him.”

“ _No,_ ” Steve gasps.

“Yes,” Bucky responds, almost sadly. “Don’t lie to me, Steve. I know what you look like when you’re in love.”

Steve’s stomach drops out of his stomach so fast there might as well have been several twenty-pound weights attached to it. “You–”

Bucky looks at him, takes in Steve’s cautiously optimistic face, the heartbreak written in between the hope. He looks away. He can’t take this now, maybe not ever. And anyway, something’s just occurred to him; two pieces have slotted together.

“Oh my God,” Bucky breathes. “He loves you, too. I’m such an idiot, Jesus Christ.”

Steve looks, if possible, even more alarmed. “What? No, Bucky, he loves _you_. We just talked about this.”

Bucky shakes his head, feeling as though his heart is splintering into hundreds of tiny pieces. Vaguely, he wonders if Tony will make him a prosthetic for it, or an arc reactor, something his boyfriend showed him the other day.

“I can’t just sit back, I just _fuck_. We’ve been together, what? Two months? You guys knew each other for _years_ ,” Bucky says, reaching up to tug a hand through his hair and _yanking_.

“Please, Bucky, don’t be like that,” Steve begs. “You’ve seen the damn notebook. You’ve seen us in paper. We can’t be anything, Bucky, it didn’t work.”

Logically, Bucky knows he’s right, but he can’t help the thought niggling the corner of his mind and when he finally voices it and Steve gasps, he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“You just felt guilty, didn’t you?” Bucky rasps. “You thought loving him would be like cheating on me.”

Bucky shakes his head and turns away, grasping valiantly at coherent thought. He’s surrounded by self-sacrificing idiots.

“Okay, yes, maybe,” Steve concedes miserably, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you and Tony are together, and _happy_.”

“It’s your child,” Bucky mutters, and turns back curiously to see what Steve’s reaction was. The other man looks like he’s been struck, and Bucky feels a shiver of sadistic satisfaction run through him at the thought that he’d finally managed to say something to get them out of the whole “what I think doesn’t matter anymore, you two are together” from Steve and “but you two love each other, there’s no reason for me to be around” from Bucky. 

“I–” Steve gets up and runs his own fingers through his much shorter hair, tugging on the strands. “You don’t think I _know_ that?” Steve asks, his voice breaking. “You don’t think I _know_ he’s carrying my child? You don’t think I have to live everyday knowing I lost that wonderful man and my _daughter_ because I was too much of a coward?” his voice breaks again, and now he’s doing what Bucky wouldn’t: crying. 

“I have to watch you two be happy together, Bucky, the two men I would do anything for, every. Fucking. Day. You think that’s not destroying me?” Steve asks and whirls around from where he’d been pacing to pin Bucky with glassy eyes. “Fuck you, Barnes,” he spits. “I was _fine_. I was handling it _fine._ ”

Bucky laughs in Steve’s face, because fuck, it’s so very obvious he’s not. “You’re handling it _fine_ ,” he mocks, leaning over and picking up the red sketchbook from the floor, almost tearing it open to the page of Tony slammed against the wall, a moan dangling from the man’s lips that’s nearly audible from the page.

“You’re fine, Steve, right? So you won’t mind me tearing this out, then,” Bucky snarls, and rips the page out violently, delighting in the sound that’s torn from the splitting of the page and the spine of the book. The ugly beast of rage rears his head from somewhere deep in Bucky, rendering him helpless to do anything but continue to wrench the page apart, yanking and yanking until pieces of creamy paper are drifting to the floor and there’s nothing but still silence.

For a moment, no one breathes, and Bucky stares at the ruined pieces of paper on the floor, heaving with too much adrenaline for such a small activity.

Then, there’s a muffled thump as the rest of the book hits the floor.

“Get out.” 

Steve’s words are quiet, final, and Bucky does. 

He turns around and marches his ass right out the door he came through, slamming the door in his wake.

He doesn’t look back. 

-

Steve sinks to the floor right where he’s standing, and carefully, pitifully, gathers up the torn pieces of paper from the floor.

His heart’s racing faster than it ever has, beating a tattoo against his ribcage, and Steve wants nothing more than to release the sob building in his throat, but dammit, he’s stronger than that.

He has no fucking idea what to do with the pile of ripped page, but after some deliberation just decides to sweep the lot into the drawer in his bedside table to deal with another day when he’s not drowning in his own thoughts. 

He gets up on shaky feet and stumbles to the wall, slamming his fist against it and releasing a hoarse “fuck.”

How much he’s lost is just dawning on him, now, and he thumps his head against the wall, a sick part of him telling him he deserves the pain.

He’s lost Bucky, his first love and his soulmate, the first person to make him feel adequate like he was, to make him feel like he didn’t have to reach to have everything he ever needed, because it was all right there.

He lost him the first time going off to the war, when his best friend had walked away in his damn uniform, taking all the stupid with him. The second time when he fell off the fucking train, and the absolute anguish that had filled Steve in that very second still makes him weak in the knees to think about. After that, Steve was almost relieved to be directing the plane’s nose towards the ocean, because he knew he would finally be free of the pain. The third time was much less catastrophic than the last two, and was when Bucky said he didn’t quite remember Steve, at least not the way Steve remembered him. 

Then he lost Tony, a man who was all the things Steve liked about the new world encompassed into one person. He was vibrant and funny and handsome and wore technology like a second skin. He was also arrogant and a pain in the ass, but his facade was cracked. Steve knew, he _knew_ that if he had bothered to try to pry them apart, even a little bit, he would have found a genuinely good person under its shell, someone who was just trying to make up for the mistakes of himself and those before him and do the next right thing.

He lost him in a fit of cowardice, when he just couldn’t take it anymore. It was an act of desperation, of wanting to crawl out of his own skin, and the consequences of said action were far greater than he could have ever imagined.

He lost his daughter the minute he knew of her existence. 

And of course he did, he knew what pregnancy looked like, even in its earliest stages; his mother was a fucking nurse, for God’s sake. He’d chosen to stay silent, though, and that was his mistake. That was nearly unforgivable. 

It had been so fucking easy to just walk away from a withdrawing Tony, so fucking easy to hide under the guise of needing to find Bucky, so _fucking_ easy to just run away from his mistake and cowardice. 

In hindsight, he should have thought things through. He should have realized that by leaving he was possibly losing any sort of custody over the baby he might have had.

It makes his heart hurt to think about it. It hurts more to think about than Tony or Bucky, because she’s _his child_.

To sum it all up, he’s devoid of his first love, his second, and his only daughter. A century old friendship is crumbling around Steve’s shoulders in a storm of dust and smoke, and he’s steadily growing further and further away from his baby’s father and his daughter herself.

At this very moment, choking on his tears with his forehead pressed firmly against the wall, shoulders shaking and jaw trembling, Steve wants to give up so badly his very bones shake with it. 

He wants to be done with it all, he wants to scream and cry and run until he can’t stand anymore, he wants to hurl himself off of a cliff or into the fucking ocean again just to make the pain stop, but somehow, he gathers it together. 

In the back of his mind, something Bucky had said is echoing over and over: _“He loves you.”_

Steve isn’t naive enough to think that meant he had any sort of chance, and besides, Tony and Bucky are together, but maybe the opportunity for a tentative friendship’s on the line?

If nothing else, Steve has to hold on for the baby.

For her.

-

Bucky’s shaking.

His prosthetic arm is the only limb and part of his body that isn’t trembling like a leaf and he holds it in his flesh hand, digging his fingers in between the metal plates, trying to make that hand stop shaking, too.

It doesn’t work, of course. 

He’s angry and tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and sleep. He fights the urge, however, because there’s something he needs to do first. 

“Jarvis?” he rasps, leaning heavily against the wall and licking his lips. “Where’s Tony?”

“Sir is in the nursery, reading,” the automated British voice answers, and Bucky nods wearily. 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Jarvis.”

“Not a problem, Mr Barnes,” comes the swift reply, and Bucky peels himself off the wall, running a quick hand through his hair before stumbling off in search of his boyfriend. 

Tony is in the rocking chair, reading from a tablet peacefully, when Bucky arrives at the nursery. He slumps against the doorway, exhausted and manages a small smile when Tony looks up and positively beams.

“You look down,” Tony notes with a quick glance at him before going back to the articles he was reading, and the grin Bucky’s managed to carefully cultivate on his face slips down quickly, leaving just pure frustration.

“You could say that,” he says through gritted teeth, and Tony looks up again, this time in alarm. 

“I– Bucky? Are you doing alright?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, looks away, and reminds himself that it isn’t Tony’s fault. None of this is. He just wants the truth, he wants to hear his boyfriend’s side of the story. Still, it’s in a carefully measured tone of voice that he answers. It’s the knowledge that this might be the end of them that keeps him from going over and shaking the man upfront.

“There’s something you might have forgotten to mention,” he tells Tony carefully, and he can almost smell the confusion, it’s so palpable.

“About what?”

“Her.”

“Her?”

Bucky nods jerkily towards the bulge in Tony’s shirt, growing larger by the week. 

“Oh,” Tony says, closing his face a little and idly running a hand up and down his stomach. “What about her?”

“Why didn’t you tell me Steve did it?” he blurts out, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Tony’s face completely drains of color, and he struggles to his feet, his hands curling into fists. “What are you talking about?” he asks, and his voice is shaking.

“You know what,” Bucky says awkwardly. “Steve kno–impregnated you.”

Tony grinds his teeth together. “Who the fuck told you?” he demands, and Bucky fights the urge to shrink back. 

“No one,” he answers. “I found out. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“It’s not my information to tell,” Tony snarls. 

“Not your–” Bucky sputters, “you’re the one who’s fucking pregnant! If it should be anyone’s information, it’s yours!”

Tony shakes his head quickly. “If Steve wanted people to know, you wouldn’t be my boyfriend,” he snaps, and Bucky reels back as if he’s been struck.

“Look,” Tony says, through a clenched jaw. “This doesn’t involve you, okay? We’re happy, the baby’s healthy, Steve’s moved on, _I’ve moved on_ , and everything is _fine_.”

Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s _fine._

That was what Steve had said too. Bucky was so fucking tired of hearing this.

“You’re not fine,” he says softly and looks down, gathers his thoughts, and looks back up.

“You still love him,” he continues, and he sees Tony’s eyes flash with fury. “I know you do, and that’s fine. I’m not asking you to not. I just… I just want to know your standpoint.”

“My standpoint?” Tony asks, and his voice is high and mocking. “You want me to tell you about _my standpoint?_ Of what? When he was fucking me? Because I can tell you about that if you want to hear. The wall was fucking cold, you know, but the water was scalding.” He laughs derisively, and Bucky winces at the harshness of it, the self-deprecation embedded within.

“I was harder than I’d ever been in my life,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to the other man’s flinch. “God, when he lifted me up and slammed me into the wall, I could have come right then and there. All that tanned, golden skin, and those goddamn _muscles_...”

“Stark,” Bucky grits out, and Tony leers at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Barnes. Was that too much for you? I’ll try to be more PG next time, scout’s honor.”

Bucky snorts, and suddenly the tension lessens considerably, and it becomes a little easier to breathe. “You were never a boy scout,” he says, and watches as the corner of Tony’s mouth twitches as well. “A little too gay for that, probably.”

“Fuck you, Bucky,” Tony snarks back lightly. “I’ve fucked girls.”

“Oh?” Bucky’s eyebrow raises. “Have you now? A sex doll doesn’t count, you know.”

“ _A sex doll?_ ” Tony gasps. “What do you take me for? A rich egomaniac?”

When Bucky presses his lips together he knows he could easily pull a poker face and rid himself of emotion, but he lets a small smile fight through to let Tony know he’s only teasing.

Tony sniffs and turns. “I can’t look at you anymore,” he tells the other man disdainfully. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and stalks closer, before carefully wrapping his arms around the other man. In his grasp, Tony tenses, then relaxes a little, and Bucky buries his nose in his neck. 

“It wasn’t my place to confront you about anything,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, his words are just as soft as Bucky’s.

“He hurt me,” Tony admits, and Bucky clutches him closer. 

“He hurt me,” Tony continues, “and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel any of my pain. I know you and Steve were lovers,” he mumbles, and Bucky breathes in sharply. 

“I just… I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve just spent so long trying to get over what happened, get over _him_ that I just couldn’t fathom talking about it with you, too.”

He turned in Bucky’s arms to hug him properly. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” he mutters, “but for what it’s worth, I’m glad you know.”

Bucky has something he wants to say too, in the spirit of honesty, but mostly because he doesn’t want his boyfriend to find out from Steve. “I’m glad too, though I don’t think I, ah, handled it the best I could have.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asks, and pulls away to look at him with a confused expression. “I mean sure, you kind of went all ‘unneeded PSA’ on me, but you didn’t break anything or break up with me, so…”

Bucky winces and pulls away completely, bringing up a silver hand to rub the nape of his neck. “About that… you ever wondered how I got the information in the first place?”

“I just assumed you got it from Natasha,” Tony says, growing more bemused by the second. “Or Rhodey, since he was here a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah, no.” Bucky laughs nervously. “I found out from Steve.”

“ _Steve told you?_ ” Tony asks, his eyes wide.

“Sort of, but that’s, um, not the point.”

“Then what is?” Tony asks testily, trying to gauge what Bucky was going to say next. 

“How is your relationship with Steve right now?” Bucky asks carefully, and watches as Tony’s face closes off a little. It pains him, but he can’t think of a gentler way to break the news of what he’d done.

“Not the best,” Tony admits grudgingly, frowning, “but, I mean, we don’t fight or passive-aggressively ignore one another or anything. Why? Bucky, what the hell did you do?” Tony asks with growing alarm as Bucky winces.

“I may have… pushed him a little too far. I, uh, reminded him that his daughter is no longer _his_ –”

“You fucking _what?_ Actually, don’t answer that,” Tony says, holding a hand up. “Why were you talking to him in the first place?”

“I found...something of his, that sort of clued me in.”

“So you _confronted_ him about it?”

“Yeah.”

“And let me guess: you guys screamed at each other for a while.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“So, what?” Tony presses. “What did you find out?”

Bucky knows he shouldn’t, he really does. But the words are right there… and besides, he’d already told Steve Tony still loved him, so surely the other way around wouldn’t be too bad?

“He loves you,” he whispers, and hangs his head so he doesn’t have to look at Tony and see the expression there.

There’s silence for a few dragging seconds. 

“I see,” Tony says, finally. “Well, Barnes,” (God, does Bucky hate how Tony curls his lip when he says his last name) “you are officially the world’s worst secret-keeper, but I already knew, so.”

“You knew?” Bucky asks dumbly.

Tony laughs a little sadly. “I’m not blind, you know. A little too much, too late, though.”

Bucky blinks. “So what’re you going to do?” he asks carefully, and Tony grins wryly.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Probably just ignore him until he comes and talks to me.”

“And… us?”

“What about us, Terminator?” Tony asks, eyeing him challengingly, daring him to say something.

“Are we still… dating?”

Tony snorts. “I’m pissed, but also, I don’t recall saying you were allowed to leave me again.” He pauses. “Also, I’m not sure my libido could take it.”

Bucky laughs, a little ashamed when it comes out watery. “Probably not,” he agrees.

Tony smiles a little, and holds open his arms. “You still want a hug?” he asks, and Bucky rolls his eyes fondly.

“Always,” he shoots back cheekily, and pulls the smaller man into his arms. “I’m still so sorry,” he says after a while, breathing the words into soft black hair. “Wasn’t my place.”

“It wasn’t,” Tony sighs, “but I still love you anyway.”

Bucky freezes. _What?_ He pulls away, mouth opening, ready to say… he has no idea, but _something_ , but Tony beats him to it. Sort of.

He pulls away from Bucky at nearly the same time the other man tries to, a frown on his face, seemingly ignoring the other man in front of him. One of his hands goes to his stomach and he rubs it, his eyebrows scrunching adorably, before they suddenly shoot up and his eyes widen. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. He looks up at Bucky and beams. “Here, feel this,” he says excitedly, and drags flesh fingers to rest on his stomach. 

At first, Bucky can’t feel anything, but then, a little movement, sort of like a ripple of water. He looks up at Tony and smiles widely. “I can feel her,” he whispers, and Tony nods excitedly. His eyes are getting a little misty and Bucky throws both his arms around his boyfriend once more, hugging him tightly. 

“God, Tony,” he breathes into the other man’s hair, “I’m so happy for you.”

“I know, fuck,” he mumbles into Bucky’s neck. “I’m happy, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a mess. it's very rushed, so super poorly written, but hopefully next week's will be better? I have no fucking idea on where to go at this point. I'm killing time until he's nine months ;)))))
> 
> ...that's when the real shit will go down
> 
> expect cute pregnant fluff the next few chapters!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has some cravings, Bucky gets Mexican food, Bucky and Steve have another fight, Steve has had enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there :)
> 
> There is going to be a LONG endnote for this chapter, so either read it or don’t, but hopefully, it’ll address some concerns.
> 
> I’m just going to cut straight to the chase:  
> TW: mentions of suicidal attempts, self-harm, flashbacks, mental disorders, hitting (physical abuse), strong language, and probably more along this vein.
> 
> If you don’t think you can read this chapter safely but you still want to read the next chapters to finally see our boys get together, etc etc, please go directly to the comments and ask me for a summary. I was going to put it in the endnote, but the endnote is already atrociously long as it is. I will be happy to condense the information as best I can for you :)

**TW: mentions of suicidal attempts, self-harm, flashbacks, mental disorders, hitting (physical abuse), strong language**

-

“Bucky,” Tony moans from where he’s sprawled across the couch.

Bucky looks up. “Can I help you?” he asks, with a small smile. 

“Fuck, I want some…” he licks his lips, thinks. “I want something _fresh_. With flavor, and… oh my god. Bucky. Lemons. I want lemon slices. _Please_ get me lemon wedges.”

Bucky grins a little. “Last week it was oranges. This week lemons, huh?”

Tony nods and he almost looks pained. “God, I can almost taste them. Bucky, c’mon. My back hurts.”

Bucky shakes his head and heaves himself to his feet, leaving the book he’s been reading on the floor. _The Wrinkle in Time,_ but translated to Russian. He’d asked Natasha, albeit a bit shyly, what she recommended to do to distinguish the Russian and American sides of his brain and personality a little more. She’d suggested reading American books in Russian, explaining that what was helping her was using combining the two instead of trying to separate them. She’d also said that small exposure to similar topics of what he’d gone through, in this case: brainwash, would be a good way to slowly tear down that fear a little. Hence, he had a list of books ready, all in Russian, to try out. _Heidi_ was next, and he was a little apprehensive about it, but he trusted Natasha.

She certainly wasn’t wrong about the tattered copy of _The Wrinkle in Time_ now lying on the floor; he’s read it three times already and is utterly fascinated with the It.

Bucky makes his way to the refrigerator and peeks inside, looking for the cheerful yellow color of a ripe lemon peel. Tony had started craving various things about two weeks ago, a fortnight after Bucky had Opened the Sketchbook, and extremely late for a normal pregnancy. The doctor had assured them in their panicked states, however, that everything was alright with her and Tony, and every person was different. He’d even gotten another ultrasound, and there was a small line up of them taped to one of the walls in the workshop.

Tony was only three months out from giving birth, entering his third and final trimester, and sometimes Bucky could almost smell the nervousness radiating off of him. The light quickening he’d just barely felt from Tony’s unborn daughter had erupted into whole movements, and it wasn’t uncommon for Tony to wince suddenly in the middle of a conversation, or rub a hand soothingly over his stomach with a crease between his eyebrows when a tiny foot struck his insides a little too hard.

Tony has also started researching babies a lot more, and even inadvertently forced it upon Bucky as well, often launching into a discussion about something or other that he’d read about, fully expecting Bucky to be able to follow his train of thought and the single-sided conversation. 

Bucky doesn’t mind, however. He’s thrilled that Tony’s including him in the pregnancy at all, after what he’d done.

The worst part is that Tony doesn’t even know the whole story. He knows Bucky said some things he probably shouldn’t have, and he knows he and Steve aren’t talking, but he doesn’t know how Bucky had aimed straight for Steve’s jugular, how he’d purposely said the most harmful thing he possibly could because he felt... 

What, exactly? What had he felt?

It’s a question that is still haunting Bucky a whole month after the encounter. He’s had plenty of time to think it over, and for the life of him can’t figure out why he did that, why he lost control so badly. It scares him a little, to be honest, and he finds himself avoiding Steve, not anxious to see the other man after tearing up his work.

Gosh, does Bucky feel bad about the art. But it’s too late. What was done is done; the damage is already inflicted.

There’s also the teeny tiny minuscule blink-you’d-miss-it problem of Bucky feeling his temper boil up every time he thought of it. It was no big deal. He’d get over it.

“Did you fall in?” Tony asks, his tone amused, from the doorway.

Bucky startles and hits his head on the cabinet door, swearing a blue streak and clutching the hurt area with his flesh hand. “You scared me,” he growls, and Tony laughs a tinkling, lovely sound.

“I noticed,” he notes mildly. He nods at the closed fridge doors. Well, as closed they can get. The metal has bunched on both edges of the doors, identical dents in the shape of hands. “Want to tell me why I’ll be ordering a new fridge later?”

“Sorry, Tony,” Bucky mutters, running a tired hand through his hair and wincing slightly when his fingers pass over the tender spot. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Tony hums and crosses the room to open the doors for himself, giving the contents a quick sweep before forcing them as far closed as he can. “You’re in luck, Barnes,” he says, and Bucky smiles a little. “There are no lemons, and you look like you need some fresh air. What do you say about a walk?”

“With you?” Bucky asks skeptically, and Tony laughs.

“Yeah, how about no. Waddle out on the street like this? The media’d have another field day.”

It’s true; the first time Tony Stark had ventured out with a noticeable bump (without anyone else, because that would have been highly suspicious), he’d graced the front pages for nearly a week. All sorts of speculations were thrown around, but “he’s getting fat” were his and Bucky’s favorite by far. It had made them both laugh until they were wheezing, because what a fucking idiot that reporter had to have been.

There was also the small matter of Tony getting winded just walking up the stairs, so what would likely be a several mile walk? Maybe not the best idea.

“Alright,” Bucky concedes. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Tony winks at him. “Hop to it, soldier,” he teases, and Bucky chuckles, leaning and stealing a quick kiss. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, and Tony almost glows with happiness. Bucky had finally confronted the other man about it, and when Tony had nervously but stubbornly told Bucky that he loved him and if he had a problem with it he should get a move on, Bucky had positively melted. They said it a few times a week, each one tentative and new but genuine. 

It made Bucky’s heart warm to think about. 

“I like you very much too,” Tony responds solemnly, and Bucky rolls his eyes affectionately. 

“That’s not even what I said.”

“Jerk,” Tony shoots back. 

“Punk,” Bucky replies automatically, then freezes. Fuck. Thousands of memories of saying this exact thing between him and his former best friend flood his memory, reminding him of times he hadn’t known existed. Not for the first time, he curses Hydra and his missing memories.

_It’s February, and muddy snow is everywhere in Brooklyn, trampled on by hundreds of boots. It’s colder than it usually is, under ten degrees, and Steve is shaking like a leaf under his raggedy coat as he and Bucky trek home from school._

_After nearly two blocks of watching his best friend’s lips turn blue and shiver so hard his teeth chatter but reply with “I’m fine,” every time Bucky asks if he’s okay, Bucky decides he’s had enough._

_He’ll live without a jacket for two seconds. Steve… best not to go there._

_“Here, Stevie,” he says, and shrugs off his equally ratty coat, draping it over the other boy. The cold air bites at his exposed wrists, hands, and neck, but Bucky ignores it. “I’m sick and tired of hearing your teeth clack together.”_

_“Jerk,” Steve replies, but burrows into the jacket further, puffing out a cloud of warm air from between his lips._

_“Punk,” Bucky shoots back, and wraps his arm around his best friend’s shoulders, to an indignant squawk that he pays no mind to. After all, he needs to be warm too._

_Now it’s April of a different year, and the change in weather and scenery is incredible. Flowers dot the rucked-up field at their high school, pretty and white, and ready to be picked for flower crowns._

_Bucky hardly notices._

_Bucky spends his day dragging Steve out of a fight, then beating up the other guys. They walk home together, afterward, Steve sporting a bloody nose and several tender spots on his side that Bucky knows will be blooming purple by tomorrow, and Bucky with a split knuckle where he missed a punch and hit the wall behind the kid instead._

_He’s pissed at Steve, so he doesn’t say anything, only concentrates on wrapping his bleeding hand carefully in his shirt, but not before picking out a few tiny rocks that got caught._

_It stings._

_They pass a group of girls and, just to be an ass, Bucky rucks up his shirt even higher and clenches his stomach, displaying his abs. He winks at them and gives them a brief glimpse of his bloody hand, smiling crookedly as if saying_ what can you do? 

_They burst into giggles and flip their hair, and Bucky walks away from them feeling inordinately pleased with himself._

_“Jerk,” Steve hisses from his left side, and Bucky almost looks down guiltily (he’d nearly forgotten he was there), but catches himself in time. They’ve already started sleeping together, for lack of a better word (it’s just rutting against each other and handjobs and such), and Bucky can admit to himself that maybe he shouldn’t have pulled such a dick move. But still, served Steve right for getting in another fight._

_“Punk,” he replies, but it’s soft this time._

_Steve doesn’t say anything but gently cleans and wraps Bucky’s hand when they get to Steve’s apartment, giving it back to Bucky with a gentle kiss on his fingertips, and Bucky knows he’s been forgiven._

_Now it’s October of yet a different year. Auburn foliage skitters down the sidewalks and Bucky and Steve chase it, leaping and landing on the fragile plants, grinning at the satisfying crunch the leaves make under their sneakers._

_They’re maybe eight or nine, and still have that sort of childish energy that fades when children turn twelve or so. When they both see a particularly large leaf run up the pavement ahead of them, they immediately turn it into a competition with a single glance at each other, sprinting as fast as they can after it. Bucky’s faster, of course he is, but Steve plays dirty (of course he does)._

_The blonde one trips the taller one, and Bucky goes sprawling on the side of the sidewalk, barely managing to catch himself on a patch of scraggly weeds. The dense earth hurts beneath his knees, but he knows it would hurt a hell of a lot worse if he had landed on the concrete._

_“Steve!” he cries, staggering to his feet. He takes off, pouring on as much speed as he possibly can. The other boy does exactly what Bucky hoped he would do: turns around._

_Bucky’s on the junior track team, and one thing the coach always says is not to turn around. It slows you down, and when you’re sprinting, that’s the last thing you want. So Steve turns around and Bucky bolts past him, trapping the leaf beneath his feet with one great leap and a smug grin._

_Steve finally catches up, wheezing. “Jerk,” he pants. He’s doubled over, his hands on his knees, and Bucky feels a flash of guilt, but then Steve looks up and grins, and Bucky decides it’s okay._

_“Punk,” he replies, and he grins back, heaving one of Steve’s arms over his shoulders and walking them home. “The leaf wasn’t a good crunchiness,” he says later, thoughtfully, and once again Steve does what Bucky was hoping for: laughs._

_It’s May, now…_

“Bucky!” cries a voice, and the man can vaguely feel someone shaking him. But no, _no_ , it’s summer and he and Steve are going to play with the hose…

“ _Bucky!_ ” calls the voice again, it sounds urgent now, and Bucky struggles to return to where this person is, tries to tear himself away from playing in the hose, because the person is in _distress_.

“Bucky! Snap out of it, damn you! C’mon, I’m here, you’re safe, I didn’t mean to set you off…”

Now wait a minute, Bucky _knows_ that voice. That isn’t Steve Rogers, no siree, but it sounds just as familiar, just as comforting. “Tony?” he asks, cautiously, and his breath grows labored. He’s scared. He doesn’t know where he is.

Fuck. There’s shaking, and then, yes, he knows where he is. He’s in the kitchen, and there’s Tony Stark, clutching Bucky’s shoulders with worry in his eyes. They were looking for lemons, he remembers that too, and he was instructed to go out and get them.

At the word _instruct_ , he can feel the Winter Soldier stirring, wanting to peek over his shoulder and see his new directions, his new mission.

Fuck. 

He does need fresh air.

“Bucky?” Tony asks again, trying to follow Bucky’s eyes with his own. “Are you with me?”

 _Not ‘are you alright?’_ , Bucky muses, but _‘are you with me?’_

“I think I’m okay, Tony. Just got some of my memories back,” he finally murmurs, and Tony sighs with relief. 

“Lost you for a second there,” he says, and he’s trying to smile, trying to make a joke, but Bucky can see the concern in his eyes.

Bucky clears his throat and looks away. “Lemons?” he says, and Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, but he respectfully backs away and gives Bucky his space. 

God, does Bucky’s heart ache for this man.

“Lemons,” Tony answers and pats him on the shoulder quickly. “Be quick about it.”

“I will,” Bucky promises. He tries to smile, but it fades into a grimace. “I’ll be back,” he mutters, and Tony nods and leaves the room before things can get any more uncomfortable. 

Alone in the kitchen, Bucky fights the urge to scream. 

If these were tucked away, these memories of friendly nicknames, how many were there? Bucky could never identify the gaps in his memory, and yet, new ones seemed to emerge all the time. He can’t help but wonder, _What more is tucked into his subconscious?_

He shivers and shakes himself, rolling out his shoulders. Right. Lemons. That’s what’s important here.

On his way out he spots a ratty Dodgers cap by the door, and he pulls it low over his loose hair, keeping his head down as he strolls out into the streets; the fewer people who see his face, the better.

The question is: where the fuck does he find lemons. He doesn’t want to go to any grocery stores; the thought of walking through chilly air-conditioned aisles while people mill about and buy cereal and cold cuts makes a shiver of nervousness shoot through him.

Better not to be around people.

He walks a couple of blocks, and he notices that he seems to be gathering a lot of attention. Passerby, particularly women, are staring at him, and even some men. He burrows his metal hand in his coat pocket even further, trying to hide it from the hungry gazes. The fact that he’s working with the Avengers isn’t very widely advertised, or advertised at all, period, but people sometimes recognize him. Only if they see a metal arm, though. 

Quick chattering in a language he doesn’t recognize starts up to the side of him, and he turns his head slightly to investigate. A faded sign is hanging over the store that reads _Cultura de Jalisco_ , which Bucky presumes to be the name of the establishment. The little place is bustling with people, most talking in the unfamiliar language. 

There’s a delicious smell coming through the open doors and from the food people are carrying out, and Bucky’s stomach rumbles happily. He’s still hesitant to stop, however, because he _does_ have something he needs to get done…

A woman comes out with a tray holding two tortillas piled with meat, cilantro, onion, and avocado, and right next to it is a little array of lemon wedges. Bucky’s mouth waters at the sight, and now that he’s found the lemons, he _needs_ to try this. 

This is yet another food he feels he should recognize easily, as well as the language they’re speaking. He knows the name, he does, but it’s hovering on the tip of his tongue, unwilling to come to mind. 

So he walks shyly up to the woman, steeling himself against a wave of crippling nervousness that nearly makes him turn away, and taps her shoulder, trying to soften his features a bit; Tony’s told him on several occasions that he can come across as a bit intimidating. The woman turns and smiles kindly. She’s got to about sixty and looks like she’s whatever ethnicity the majority of the people here seem to be. 

“¿Sí?” the woman asks, and Bucky freezes, swallows harshly. Fuck, his breathing’s gotten a bit labored, and he didn’t think this through.

She smiles a little and jumps to her conclusions, however. “Oh, sorry sorry,” she says in accented English, “do you need...?”

He points to the food in her hands, then looks back up. “What are those?” he rasps, and she smiles again.

“Tacos carne asada,” she answers and jerks her head in the direction of the door. “In there.”

He offers a hesitant smile and thanks her, getting in line. When he’s finally at the counter, the young woman working it looks up at him and smiles flirtatiously. “What can I do for you?” she asks, leaning over the counter a bit. 

Bucky ignores the roll in his stomach at her attention and focuses instead on carefully rattling off the three words the woman told him outside, trying to mimic her pronunciation. 

Tah-kos karr-neh asa-dah.

The girl grins and enters it on the black computer screen. “Anything else?” she asks. 

“Lemon wedges,” he answers firmly. “Lots of ‘em.” 

“Sure thing,” she answers easily. “Would you just like the whole lemon?” she asks, and it’s clear she’s trying for a joke, but Bucky brightens.

“Yeah. That would be great.”

She looks surprised, but reaches behind herself, stretching quite a bit in the process, and tosses it over. He catches it easily and thanks her quickly while avoiding eye contact, takes his number, and goes to sit down with his back firmly to the young woman.

When the food finally arrives in front of him, he digs in, almost groaning at the flavor. He figures he can add the juice from the lemon wedges the girl gives him because he has an entire goddamn lemon in his pocket, so he carefully squeezes out on half of his taco, and good God is that amazing.

He tries to eat slowly, to make it last, but it seems all too soon that he has an empty plate in front of him. He uses a fork he finds in a dispenser and carefully scoops the meat off his plate, picking at the little pieces until his plate is empty.

When he gets back to the Tower, he asks Jarvis what the language was. Jarvis tells him that it’s Spanish, and he mulls the language over in his head, the rapid-fire way people had been speaking, the soft sounds of an S or A, and the hard roll of some of the Rs.

Jarvis tells him Tony is in the workshop, so he heads down with his lemon and lets himself in, waving for Jarvis to turn off the music. “I brought you your lemon,” he says helpfully, alerting Tony to his presence. 

Tony’s head shoots up, and his welding goggles almost fall off. “You did? Thanks!”

Bucky smiles a little. “It’s not cold,” he warns. 

Tony waves his hand impatiently. “It’s fine. C’mon, sit down. Read your book, whatever.”

Bucky goes and sits on the couch, grateful that his boyfriend is letting him off the hook. Tony’ll probably want to talk about it later, but sitting down makes him realize how exhausted he was, and he falls asleep almost immediately.

When he wakes up, Tony has moved on to something else, and there’s a neat little pile of lemon wedges on the table, all wrung out and stringy. Bucky blinks at them for a confusing second.

“Did you _suck_ them?” he asks, and Tony looks over sheepishly.

“Yes…?”

Bucky feels laughter bubbling up. “I thought you were going to make lemonade or something, not suck the juice out.”

Tony shrugs. “I wanted the sour.”

Bucky smiles and heaves himself up to go put his hands gently on Tony’s hips. “What about the bitter and salty?” he teases, and Tony huffs a laugh into his neck.

“Anything for you, darling,” he replies, and Bucky thinks, _No, anything for you._

-

Bucky doesn’t see Steve anymore. 

He knows he’s still in the Tower, of course, but Steve seems to be avoiding Bucky: entering the gym immediately after Bucky leaves, suiting up and being the first on the quinjet to avoid Bucky wishing the rest of them farewell on the landing pad before missions, and spending all his free time in his room, presumably making more art. 

The worst part is, they live _on the same floor._ Statistically, it should only be a matter of time before they ran into each other, yet they never have. It was probably on purpose, Bucky reasons, and his temper flares a little at the thought of Steve making himself the victim here.

It’s been a couple of days since Bucky went and got Tony his lemons, and a month since he Opened the Sketchbook. It’s been one month too many, but Bucky’s glad for it. It’s given him time to think. To mull over where everything went to shit. He thinks he’s got it, now. He thinks he understands. 

One thing he refuses to think about is the remorse that runs through him when he thinks about ripping that page from the sketchbook up. He feels extremely guilty, and he’s nearly drowning in it. He knows it’s something he’ll have to apologize for, but admitting that he was _that_ cruel, that he had let his anger get the best of him, that was just… embarrassing, and it made Bucky a little nauseous to think about. 

Right now he’s sitting on the armchair by the huge window in the common room, the one you can see the whole city from. The midday sunlight is warm on his face and he lies back in his chair, his hair spread around his shoulders, and his knees drawn up tight to his chest. 

He feels guilty, suddenly, that he’s enjoying the sun while Steve’s probably holed up in his room, working on his art or exercising. Come to think of it… what did that man _do?_ Surely he has other hobbies, right?

Right?

Bucky shakes his head and unwinds himself, getting up and stretching. The walk to Steve’s room seems shorter than it ever has, and it feels like no time’s passed at all when he finally arrives.

Standing there, his hand poised above the door two down from his, he almost loses his nerve. It seems too easy, all of a sudden, to just forget about it. He and Steve were separated for seventy years and they were fine, weren’t they?

Immediately after thinking this Bucky feels guilty. For him, it was fine, because he didn’t even know who Bucky Barnes was, much less Steve Rogers. God, he can only imagine how bad it was for Steve. 

He grits his teeth and knocks, thinking to himself all the while how stupid he’d feel if Steve wasn’t there, if he was psyching himself up like an idiot outside an empty room.

He needn’t have wondered, though. The door swings open on the second knock and then keeps swinging until it’s all the way open and the only thing Bucky can see is the broad body of Steve Rogers. 

“Can I help you?” Steve asks, evenly, calmly. His face is drawn, tired, and Bucky knows that if he didn’t have the serum there would be impressive bags under his eyes. There’s a light scruff on his jaw, too, as if he didn’t have the willpower to shave. 

Steve Rogers always shaves.

Bucky’s nervous, suddenly, and is angry at himself for feeling this way. “Can I talk to you?” he replies, and Steve studies his face for a minute before nodding. 

Bucky follows his best friend–former best friend?–to the small space connected to the bedroom, where there’s a couch and a chair. Steve gestures at the couch, wordlessly telling Bucky to sit down, and Bucky obeys.

Steve disappears into the small kitchen and returns five minutes later with two warm mugs of hot water. The strings of tea bags are poking out the sides. Bucky stares at them, realizes he’s being rude and takes one. 

Inside, however, his mind is reeling. _Since when has a healthy Steve drunk tea?_ Since now, apparently.

There’s a cloud of amber in Bucky’s mug, and he recognizes that it needs at least another minute before he can stir it and take out the teabag, so he puts the cup down gently on the coffee table between them.

“So,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. 

“What can I do for you?” Steve asks wearily.

“I wanted to start by apologizing,” Bucky says softly. “I shouldn’t have torn your drawing – hell, I shouldn’t have opened the damn sketchbook in the first place – and I’m sorry.”

Steve breathes out a gusty sigh and relaxes further into the chair. “I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt, but I…” He sighs again, “I guess I can forgive you.”

Bucky sags a little, releasing a ton of tension he didn’t know he had. He picks up his mug, the teabag is done steeping. He delicately takes it out and puts it on the little plate where Steve’s already is, grabbing a spoon and stirring the steaming liquid.

“I’m sorry, too,” Steve says, and Bucky’s opening his mouth to protest, but Steve holds his hand up. “You, ah, know what I did to Tony. You know how I handled it.”

Bucky nods. He does know that.

“Tony hasn’t forgiven me, and he probably won’t ever; I’d deserve that.” Steve looks sad as he says that last bit and Bucky’s heart turns over, thumps.

“But, I just wanted to say sorry to you. He’s your boyfriend, and you guys look happy. I’m sorry I’m in the picture at all–”

“What do you mean, _in the picture?_ ” Bucky hisses. 

Steve keeps his face impassive. “I was your boyfriend first,” he finally says, slowly. “And Tony’s pregnant because of me.”

“Steve, I hate to break it to you, but in the picture means you’re there with the baby. With Tony.”

Steve swallows, takes a sip. His hand is trembling. “How can I do that when you’re his boyfriend?” he asks. “How am I supposed to be involved with my daughter’s life if I can’t see her? If her dad hates me?”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you.”

“He should,” Steve replies miserably.

Frustration clouds Bucky’s vision. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asks, and Steve raises an eyebrow. “Why are you so adamant that he hates you? Have you ever tried to talk to him _at all?_ I mean, Jesus, Steve, is kissing all you could think of?”

“I wasn’t thinking very clearly–”

“You never do.”

Steve pauses. Bucky waits. “That’s not very fair,” he says quietly. 

“Sure it isn’t, Steve,” Bucky scoffs. “Ever since we were kids you’ve been too goddamn stubborn to–”

“ _Do not speak to me about when we were younger,_ ” Steve roars, leaping to his feet. His grip on his mug goes white and the ceramic shatters, warm liquid running in dark rivulets down the side of Steve’s hands.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says with feeling, looking at the white shards while running his hands through his hair. 

“Steve, what?” Bucky feels as though someone’s thrown him into a lake without teaching him how to swim. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t–” Steve says jerkily, “You don’t… understand,” he finishes, the frustration he’s feeling evident in his voice.

“What don’t I get, Steve?” Bucky asks through gritted teeth, but not unkindly.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Steve asks helplessly. Everything he’s been bottling up for the last two months is starting to boil up again, and Steve struggles to keep a lid on it.

“Maybe I would if you told me, huh?”

Steve buries his head in his hands and takes a deep, rattling breath. “Do you have any idea,” he says, his words slightly muffled, “what it’s like to wake up in a world where the love of your life is dead and, not only that, the last memory you have before dying yourself is _his death?_ ”

Bucky stays silent. He’s not sure where Steve’s going with this. 

“And then, _fuck_ , suddenly, you were here again. You were _alive_ , Bucky, and I know you’ve gone on about how at first you thought it was all a dream, that someone would yank you out any minute, and I thought the same thing.”

“So we’re both in the same boat, then?” Bucky asks cautiously.

“No.” Steve shakes his head and looks up and his best friend, and fuck, his eyes are red with tears. 

“You said I was different, you said I changed, but even so, _I was still fucking there for you!_ ” Steve shouts that last part and Bucky winces. 

“I was still there for you, but you, you _left me_. You ran away with the man I loved, no less… did our love mean _anything_ to you?” Steve’s voice breaks and he gasps, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“ _I still loved you,”_ he screams. Bucky clenches his jaw so hard he’s relieved he doesn’t crack a tooth. He has no idea how they got to this point, or why Steve is suddenly so worked up, but Steve isn’t finished.

“I still love you _now,_ Buck, that’s how fucking pathetic I am. I just – growing up was like _yesterday_ , to me, and you don’t, you don’t even _care_.” 

Steve’s jaw works and he opens it, but nothing comes out and he slumps, defeated. “Do you have any idea how that feels?” he whispers, finally, and Bucky feels his heart drop.

He doesn’t. All memories of Steve he has are tinged with love and desperation and want, but because there are so few he can’t … he loves Steve, of course, he does. Bucky doesn’t need memories to fall in love with this man. But Steve had _never made a move_ , not even when he’d found him. How can he blame it all on Bucky now? Doesn’t he know Bucky couldn’t control his personality, much fewer memories, at the time?

Bucky’s temper, which has been simmering since Steve had handed him that stupid fucking tea, suddenly flares up, and he can’t see for the rage clouding his vision.

He leaps to his feet, unminding of the teacup still in his hand sloshing boiling water all over his fingers and stands there, heaving. “It was your fault,” he hisses, shaking so hard he can barely get out the words.

“Tony _did something!_ You just stood there, expected me to remember things you fucking know I couldn’t, Rogers,” he spits, and Steve flinches at the use of his last name.

“I was willing to wait!” he shouts. “I thought you needed time, not…”

 _...somebody else,_ Bucky finishes in his head.

Bucky knows this is where he needs to stop. This is where he needs to sit down and collect himself, where he needs to take a step back and remember that this isn’t all about him but, for the life of him, he can’t.

It’s like he’s watching things happen from through a frosted glass window. Everything’s distorted and fuzzy and unclear, and all he can do is keep hitting and pounding at the glass, trying to be let in where things will make _sense._

“It’s your own goddamn fault!” Bucky shouts. “You shouldn’t think that you have the right to me just because we fucked a little before the war!” 

Fuck, now he needs to stop. Steve’s started shaking, his eyes burning with suppressed rage. 

That was too far. 

But oh, Bucky can go farther.

“And you shouldn’t feel like you have a right to Tony’s love because he’s carrying your child! Your child is a _fluke!_ Her existence is an _accident_ ,” Bucky snaps at the other man, intending for his words to cut deep, where it _hurts_. He doesn’t mean it, of course, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t trade Tony’s unborn daughter for anything, but he can’t think straight. He’s not in control.

There’s silence, then Steve rears back and punches him in the face, screaming “ _Take that back!_ ”

The punch is sharp, quick, and Bucky’s neck snaps to the side, his cheek lighting on fire. 

Bucky grits his teeth and turns back to Steve whose eyes are wild with fury. “That made you feel better?” he rasps. “That’s what Tony did too. He pushed you until you snapped. Did you hit him too?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

“ _Did you hit him too?_ ” Bucky roars. “ _Answer me, damn it!_ ” He reels his arm back and throws his miraculously intact teacup as hard as he can. It clips Steve’s shoulder and shatters, and Steve grunts, a pained expression crossing his face. 

He doesn’t retaliate, however, and that makes Bucky, if possible, even madder. He feels more and more detached from his body as he grows angrier, however. He’s losing control, fast, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

“I don’t understand. _You love them_. What’s stopping you from being with them?”

Steve looks away. “Drop it,” he mutters. 

“ _No,_ ” Bucky snarls. “This isn’t fair to anyone.”

Steve whips his head back around to look at him. “Are you telling me you’re going to break up with your boyfriend to let me be with him?”

“No,” Bucky shoots back, “but–”

“Then drop it,” Steve says, and Bucky can tell he’s fragile. Something’s about to snap. Something’s _going_ to snap if Bucky doesn’t quit it.

But, like all the other times, he just keeps pushing despite his best judgment. 

“You’re not doing enough,” he accuses. “You should be doing more, at least trying to be friends with Tony–”

“Don’t you understand?” Steve finally growls. “I _can’t_. It hurts too much. So why don’t you leave me alone, huh? Try not to rip any more sketchbooks on your way out.”

Bucky sees red, and he’s swinging his hand before he realizes what he's doing. His slap across Steve’s cheek sounds clear across the room, and Bucky’s shouting something, but Bucky can barely hear himself, and he’s scared, he’s so scared, _why is this happening to him?_

“You coward,” Bucky yells. “Always taking the easy way out. How could you? How could you do this to Tony? Why did you do this to _me?_?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Steve shouts back. “It was just too much too fast and I’m _sorry_ , Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

“Like hell you are!” Bucky roars, and the fragile thing, the thing that Bucky had been wary of, snaps. It’s almost visible, the way the light in Steve’s eyes suddenly splinters, and he’s feeling too much all at once. 

Steve was always better at bottling shit up, keeping it safe inside where no one could touch it. Bucky had removed all of his defenses in one go, leaving him stripped completely bare, pushing Steve to the breaking point.

And now Steve was done.

“Why can’t you just leave me _alone?_ ” Steve's voice cracks and he takes a rattling breath, clearly trying to master himself.

It isn’t enough, however. It isn’t enough to stop the flood of his earlier thoughts and everything he’s realized in between. In the beginning, he always thought Tony was the worst thing he had lost, the worst thing that he had dealt with. Then, he thought it was Bucky. It was true, he was a big part of the reason Bucky was alive, but Bucky had already met Tony, by then. He already had someone and Steve? Steve had no one. 

When it had finally clicked into place that he had a _daughter_ that was going to have a life he would _never be a part of_ , he’d almost given up right then and there. The amount of guilt that came with losing your child was astronomical, and sometimes Steve lay in bed just swamped in it, crying himself to sleep. 

He also tries not to think about Bucky falling, something that is also his fault. Waking up in the hotel bed, alone, without Bucky because he had let his friend die, makes him throw up to think about. Not only that, because when he had woken up in that godforsaken bed with the fluorescent lighting in the ceiling and the radio in the corner, but he’d also been disappointed, because surely this wasn’t heaven, and dammit, he’d _died_ , hadn’t he, because life without Bucky was no life at all.

So he tries not to. He does, but sometimes he’ll drop something, something will slip through his fingers, and Steve will be swept into a memory of freezing ice and screaming and terrified faces and _Bucky holding on but not tight enough_.

He’s just so alone and _broken_. A month ago, he was fine. But then it all started spiraling and Steve started thinking of things he had ignored for _years_ and here he is.

He’s even lost interest in his art. He had started again, after a long break, but it didn’t hold the same luster for him it used to. It was no longer a safe place for him to document his memories. As he had found out a week later from Bucky confronting him, just looking at them was enough to sweep him back to the memory, forced to relive events he had tried to hide away in the sketchbooks to _help himself_.

But he thought he could take it. He did. He distanced himself from everyone else, went to the gym to work out his frustrations, locked the drawer with his sketchbooks firmly, and tried his damndest to sleep.

He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t take it. This was simply too much. This was it. He’d reached his breaking point. He couldn’t keep going like this, just keeping this inside with his traumatic memories. 

Bucky being here, Bucky affirming Steve’s guilt, had simply pushed Steve over the edge. 

Bucky is watching him, looking ready to throw a punch any minute, and Steve remembers the teacup that was thrown at him. He looks down, and there's a line of blood in his shirt where the open wounds pressed on it briefly before closing, and it hurts _so bad_ because the shards are under his closed skin, he healed _over them_ and suddenly Steve is crying, his chest filling with air as he shakes and trembles and his tears finally boil over. He heaves and takes in great lungfuls of air around his sobs, trying to control them, but it only makes him hurt worse. He runs his hands through his hair, tugs on the strands, then scratches down his cheeks with his fingernails, leaving angry red lines. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Steve chokes out, and he gasps for breath, his eyes pleading and helpless and _scared_. “Goddamnit, Bucky, I can’t do this anymore, it’s too much, _fuck,_ ” he suddenly screams, and turns around, punching the wall as hard he can. His fist goes straight through, clearing a hole in the plaster, and he pulls it out before driving his elbow back then forward again, punching the jagged edges of the same hole, and then doing it a third time: punching it again and again and _screaming through the voices in his head_ , and Bucky… 

Bucky just feels tired, and so very, very guilty. The anger drains away in a rush, and Bucky’s head is left spinning. Then, almost as if a switch has been flipped, Bucky suddenly realizes what Steve is doing.

“No, no Steve, you’re hurting yourself!” he cries, and leaps over the table, trying to grab his arm and halt the motion. Steve’s fist is already bloody, bits of plaster stuck to the skin and in the cuts that are forming, but Steve keeps pushing it into the wall, again and again, fighting against Bucky’s attempts to halt him. 

Bucky is yelling all the while, telling him to stop, please, and for a second, Steve pauses, but then he’s slamming his head into the wall, and Bucky hears a sickening crack as it connects. Steve rears back, clearly intent on doing it again, and Bucky _screams_ , even stomping his foot in frustration, and _fear._ So much fear.

“Steve, _stop!_ ” he cries, and he’s sobbing so hard now it’s difficult to see, and guilt is clouding his vision because _What had he done_. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, _you’re scaring me!_ ”

Steve’s legs give out on him and he collapses to the floor, clutching at Bucky desperately. His face is screwed up and red, he’s crying so hard, and his body is weak and limp. Bucky drops down with him and wraps his arms desperately around Steve, trying to gather him up through the haze of his own grief.

“I can’t,” Steve sobs and retches twice from the inordinate amount of crying and the sheer stress of it all. “I can’t, Bucky, it’s too much, I just want to _die_...”

Bucky believes him, and his heart nearly shatters. He believes him, and that’s the worst part. He knows if he leaves Steve, he’ll actually do something. He’ll kill himself, or hurt himself, and God, it’s _Bucky’s fault_... Bucky feels like _he’s_ going to throw up.

“ _I can’t stop thinking about it, about you dying_ ,” Steve cries, and this time he does throw up, all over Bucky and the floor. Bucky just clutches him tighter, breathing into the other man’s sweaty neck. The room smells like blood and vomit and sweat.

“I – I tried to die too, tried to save everyone, tried to save _myself_ –” Steve gasps, and hiccups, wiping his mouth. “Make it stop, please,” he begs, as fresh tears pour down his face, and Bucky wants to, he wants to stop his pain _so bad_ , but he’s utterly _helpless_ except...

“Jarvis,” Bucky rasps, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand hurriedly, but there’s no use; more fall to replace the ones he got rid of. “Get Tony and Bruce,” his breath hitches as a new sob racks him, and he gasps out the rest: “Tell them it’s an emergency.”

Then he looks down at the helpless man in his arms, who’s now clutching Bucky’s shirt as if it’s his last defense against the world. Steve’s making little whimpering hitches of breath in between sobs now, as if he’s in pain, and Bucky’s never felt more helpless or afraid in his life. He should have known, dammit, he _should have known!_

“It’s going to be okay, Steve,” he chokes through his own tears. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Fuck, I love you, I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so.
> 
> I know a lot of you are ready for the angst to be over, and IT NEARLY IS I PROMISE. Thank for being patient <3
> 
> Please comment, I promise I don't bite!  
> (Though some other people might, watch out)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get some help, they talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is hella boring, but could also be potentially triggering, so same trigger warnings apply as last week folks!

Tony isn’t sure what to expect when he hears Jarvis inform him of an emergency.

Whatever it is, it isn’t this.

At first Tony can’t believe his eyes. 

Bucky is slumped against the wall, tears running down his face as he heaves out sobs, his arms clamped tightly around a nearly unconscious Steve, who’s making funny twitching motions and keeps gasping, trying to mutter some sort of phrase over and over. They’re clinging to each other as if they’re each other's last hopes, and the scent of blood and vomit is thick in the room.

Steve’s arm is cloaked in blood all the way up to his elbow, his knuckles torn and bloody and likely the reason his fist is caked in blood. His face is streaked with tears, and the throw up on the floor is clearly from him. A gash on his forehead is steadily leaking blood down his nose, and his hair looks as though someone has been tugging their fingers through it over and over and again, trying to tug the follicles from his scalp. There’s shards of white ceramic littered across the floor, and Bucky’s metal arm is bent in a funny way.

There are several holes in the wall, half-dried blood decorating their jagged edges, and Tony slowly pieces the scene together until he thinks he might throw up, too.

“Bucky?” he rasps, and the man turns a tear-streaked face towards him.

“Tony,” he whispers, just as brokenly. “Steve’s not fine,” he gasps, and takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I am, either,” he admits, and Tony wants to cry. 

“Oh my…” comes a soft voice behind Tony and the man whirls around, a hand protectively on his stomach. Luckily, it’s just Bruce, carrying his medical bag and taking several deep breaths. 

“Bruce!” Bucky says, and his voice is urgent. “Can you fix up Steve? I think his cuts healed over the shrapnel in his hands.” He wipes off the tears on his face and clutches Steve tighter. “ _Please_ ,” he begs.

Bruce clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath, and walks over. “What happened?” he asks gruffly, and gently resettles Steve in Bucky’s arms, the better to look at him.

Bucky doesn’t reply, too busy running his fingers through Steve’s hair and stroking his cheek, murmuring something too quiet for Tony or Bruce to hear.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Bruce says sternly, and the man’s head snaps up. “What happened?”

Bucky takes a shuddering breath. “We were arguing, and I told him–”

“Not important,” Bruce interrupts, but Tony’s mind is _racing_. “Tell me how he got these injuries.”

“He – he punched a wall, and then slammed his head into it,” Bucky says, his eyes filling up with tears. Tony takes a deep breath and tries not to imagine it, tries not to imagine all the power Steve possesses in his body turning into a way to hurt himself. Too late, his mind fills with images of Steve punching the wall, probably screaming, then rearing back and slamming his head–

Tony takes several deep breaths again, knowing that if he passes out or throws up, it would only add to their problems.

“Alright,” Bruce says, and gently takes Steve’s injured hand in his. “Here, let me give him some painkillers. He seems like a danger to himself.”

“It won’t work,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “He has way more of the serum than me, and they just barely work on me. Won’t do anything to him.”

Bruce takes a deep breath through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. Tony can tell he’s trying to keep his cool. 

“Bruce,” he interrupts, and smiles wryly when both men turn to him. “I’m going to call Dr Matty. I don’t think this was just a fight,” he says quietly, and Bruce nods, gesturing back at Steve as he replies, “You do that. I’ll just take care of this.”

Tony smiles a little and goes into the hallway to make the call.

Dr Matty. The only psychologist that he’d ever trusted, and a hell of a woman. Her full name was Mathilda Offman but, as she’d told Tony once, _“having potentially suicidal clients call me Dr Offman is a little bit of a turn off for everyone involved”_. Dr Mathilda, she had gone on to explain, was better, but not by much. She was a licensed professional, not a character in a Roald Dahl book.

Tony likes her very much, and she’s a huge part of the reason his functionality was restored after Afghanistan. Something has clearly happened between Bucky and Steve, something that was likely long-time coming,and a traditional doctor won’t be able to fix all the bruising. 

Tony can feel the edges of guilt creeping into his vision, whispering that he should have paid more attention to the both of them, recognized some sort of sign that everything was not okay, _done something_.

It’s tempting to give in to the thoughts, but now isn’t the time for several reasons: First, he doesn’t actually know what’s wrong. Second, one thing Dr Matty had made sure to drill in his head was that it wasn’t always his fault. Third, and possibly most important, he has a lot of his own issues to focus on, one of which being the unborn child he is currently carrying.

Tony takes a deep breath and dials. 

She answers on the third ring.

-

Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to master himself as Bruce’s words tumble around in his head. 

_“Hold him down.”_

Bucky does so, pinning nearly all his weight onto Steve’s shoulder, even as the man thrashes and kicks, nearly throwing him off. 

He watches with a sort of morbid curiosity as Bruce takes out a small knife, cutting small incisions into Steve’s knuckle and general forearm, only to go back in with tweezers to pluck out the shrapnel. His jaw is firmly clenched, the edges of his ears a very faint green, and Bucky knows not to say anything.

Every time a bit of plaster is pulled deep from Steve’s flesh, the man flinches and lets out a hoarse yell, Bucky wincing along with him. He keeps steady, however. His one job is to make sure Steve doesn’t move and, goddammit, if that’s how he’s going to help Steve, then he’ll make sure the man will never fucking get up again.

At one point Bruce finishes, and both Steve and Bucky let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. Steve slumps into Bucky’s grasp as the other man slowly shifts off him, and Bruce gently wraps his hands with white gauze, even though the freshly opened skin was already closing, the bright red blood clotting. 

“I just need to check for a concussion,” Bruce explains, and carefully wipes the blood off of Steve’s forehead and nose. Miraculously, there’s no shrapnel in the closed cut on his temple. “With the serum you shouldn’t have anything more traumatic than that, and even then the likelihood you have one is pretty low.” 

Despite Bruce’s optimism, however, Steve did have a concussion. He couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for breakfast, or why there was a shattered teacup on the ground. He really only remembered punching the wall because Bruce had had to pick shards of wall out of his knuckles, but other than that, he explained slowly, he didn’t really remember. He cringed away from the light Bruce tried to shine in his eyes, shutting them tight and hiding his dilated pupils, and Bruce sighed, but let him be.

Bruce also kept his thoughts to himself, privately thinking that he isn’t sure whether that particular bit of partial amnesia was due to the concussion, or the event that led to Steve’s apparent breakdown, but either way, it’d get fixed soon enough.

“Can you walk?” Bruce asks them gruffly, but not unkindly.

Bucky nods, and stands, helping Steve to his feet. Bruce supports him from the other side, and they carefully guide Steve to the sofa to sit down. Steve stumbles and sways a little, and Bruce can see that given the chance, he’d try to fall asleep standing up. 

Sadly, sleeping with a concussion is probably not a good idea, especially if it’s so severe that a man with the healing factor of Steve’s still has dilated pupils and can’t walk properly.

Bucky sits next to him, gently tangling the fingers of Steve’s uninjured hand with his own, and Bruce stays in the corner, putting his things away.

“I’m going to go check on Tony,” he says, and stands. “Barnes, don’t let him fall asleep.”

Bucky nods, and squeezes Steve’s fingers very lightly, so Bruce bows out.

Alone in the room, Steve keeps his gaze on the table, where twin rings of moisture have bled onto the glass from the bottoms of the teacups. Bucky tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, determinedly keeping his thoughts empty.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, and Bucky jerks, as if struck. 

_“No,”_ Bucky gasps, and sits up. “No, Steve, this wasn’t your fault.”

“I scared you,” Steve mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on the table. The water isn’t water, he realizes. It’s tea. He can see it now, the slight amber color it is instead of completely clear. 

Bucky pauses, because yes, that’s true. “You did,” he agrees carefully, “but so did I. I’m the one who’s at fault here, I – I pushed you, I lost control, and I’m the one who made you freak out.”

The other man doesn’t say anything. 

“Steve, look at me,” Bucky says, and grabs Steve’s jaw firmly, turning his face until his exhausted eyes meet Bucky’s. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly, and ignores how his voice cracks a little. 

Steve just stares at him for a moment, his eyes filling with tears. 

“I told you I was fine,” he finally replies, and the tears don’t spill over, but it’s a close thing. Steve wipes his eyes impatiently with the back of his hand. “I’m not fine,” he says slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue. 

“Bucky, I need help,” he says shakily, and too late, Bucky realizes he’s nearly correct, but not quite. 

“No, Steve,” he whispers, and holds back his own tears, looking into Steve’s eyes that have turned wild with his demons. “We need help.”

-

The first day is hell.

Steve and Bucky are separated, Steve off to medical where he can get some closely-monitored sleep, Bucky to the hall outside where he falls asleep on one of the benches with his head pressed against the wall and his fingers stroking through Tony’s hair, who lays pressed to his side.

Tony refuses to leave Bucky’s side, and as soon as they’re let into Steve’s room the next morning, Steve’s side, too.

He doesn’t say anything, just sits in a chair and stares up the ceiling. He’s pissed, the two men can tell that much, but they’re afraid of asking him, too wrapped up in their own mental health.

After that first day, however, of Tony not saying anything and Bucky and Steve awkwardly finding each other's eyes before looking away, they’re split again, this time for good.

Bucky and Steve begin separate therapy right away, and for both of them, it’s hell.

Bucky considers just not saying anything, but the psychologist Tony called for them, Dr Matty, is nice enough and very understanding. She tells him that he has Intermittent Explosive Disorder, a disorder he most likely got from his decades as the Winter Soldier, and one that causes him to have extreme temper flashes, where he erupts into explosive tantrums. 

They explain his inability to keep his mouth shut around the particularly harmful thoughts, and why he slapped Steve and threw the teacup at him. 

Dr Matty was already given all the information on the serum and Bucky’s unique situation with the whole brainwash thing, and she asks some questions that she wouldn’t ask a normal person with IED.

“Have you behaved this way before these fights?” she asks, her British accent clipped as she peers over her spectacles at him. She’s half-indian with pretty caramel skin, and around thirty. Bucky thinks that if they were meeting under any different circumstances than these, they would have been good friends.

He tells her no, he hasn’t, and she starts to frown. “I see,” she says, and marks something. “And you did tell me you felt remorse and guilt after, correct? And that you felt the rage was somewhat all-consuming?”

Bucky nods. 

“Well,” she says slowly, “the signs are all here, and by all accounts, you should have IED.”

She sighs. “This might have something to do with that serum of yours, so let me run some things by some others, and we’ll let you know.”

To that, Bucky had nodded numbly, because suddenly, the thought of not having anything wrong at all, meaning the whole anger thing was just a quirk of his personality, sounded a whole lot worse. As much as Bucky didn’t want to hide behind a mental disorder, he still wasn’t sure that he could ever quite live with himself if it turned out that the blow ups were just _him_.

Bucky meets with her thrice more that week, feeling more and more exhausted each time. By the fourth time, however, she has his answer. 

“It’s a temporary form of IED,” she explains. “It took what? A year to be triggered? That’ll probably be the amount of time it takes the heal again. I’m sorry, but I really can’t offer you much beyond that.”

Bucky nods again. “My brain is healing?”

She thinks about it for a second. “Mental disorders aren’t really something people heal from. They’re something that provide symptoms people can manage with therapy and medication, but in your case, especially because you said medication likely won’t work on you, then yes, you’re healing from it. Although…”

She pauses for a second, looks at her notes. “There is the slight possibility that this is just the leftover violence from the Soldier making itself known, but you said you didn’t feel him…” She sighs again. “We just don’t know, Mr Barnes, I’m sorry.”

Steve, on the other hand, has a much clearer diagnosis. It helps that he doesn’t hold back, desperate as he is for some form of resolution.

Right when Dr Matty opens up her notebook and asks him to tell her what happened, he’s off like a faucet. Steve can see she’s surprised in the crease of her brow and the pucker of her mouth, but she hides it well. Tony later informs him that for most people, it takes several sessions for them to trust a therapist, much less tell them everything at once. 

But Steve is done. He is so done, and he is also sick of feeling this way, of feeling like it’s a chore to get up in the morning, to draw, to do anything that isn’t sleeping. Even then, he has slight insomnia that keeps him up well past three and forces him to be alone with his own thoughts while he stares at the ceiling, an experience that can be best described as… not fun.

With a little bit of coaxing and the assurance that she’s heard it all before, he carefully tells her that he doesn’t go up on the roof anymore because he’s worried he might jump. The fact that he recognizes he’s not stable in that sense, she explains to him, is a step in the right direction. 

She tells him he has c-PTSD and depression, and starts working with Bruce immediately to try and create a sort of antidepressant that will work through the serum. 

Steve has to stay in medical for a week in case he tries to hurt himself again, going to therapy every couple days and spending the rest of the time sleeping. Dr Matty recommends several other psychologists to him and even some group sessions, but Steve is quick to shut those down. A couple of days in, Bruce hands him his new antidepressants. They make him feel a little weird; he’s tired and nauseous for a couple of days, but he overcomes the symptoms fairly quickly, not even noticing them by the end of the week.

Dr Matty won’t stop shaking her head and marveling at the efficiency of the serum, and Steve would have laughed with her, if it wasn’t currently complicating his life. 

Finally, they release him. He has about a million and one different pieces of paper, with mental exercises to do and step-by-step meditation, instructions for his antidepressants, phone numbers to call if he gets a little too close to the edge, actions to do to motivate himself, a therapy schedule that lists sessions as twice a week, and every scrap of information possible on c-PTSD and depression. To say it’s a lot would be an understatement.

Still, Steve politely thanks the psychologist and goes back to the main part of the Tower, where his room is. He, Bucky, and Tony probably need to talk. But first, all he wants is a shower, as hot as he can stand it.

Someone has cleaned his room for him, making it look just like it did before Bucky knocked on his door. It was probably ordered by Tony, and the simple thoughtfulness of the act is enough to make his heart thump weakly against his ribcage.

Though not explicitly ordered, Bruce had pulled Steve over to the side once, telling him that it would probably be a bad idea to talk to either Bucky or Tony without all three of them there. “Just clear the air all at once,” he’d said firmly, and Steve had nodded hesitantly, before conceding that he was probably right. Bucky and Tony had likely gotten the same message, given that neither had tried to approach him.

After a shower that probably stretches on a little too long, he sits on his bed half naked and drags a hand over his face. “Jarvis,” he mumbles, “tell Bucky I’m going to go get him so we can talk to Tony.”

Jarvis replies that he’ll pass the message along, and Steve tugs on a blue sweater and black trousers, as if protecting all available skin. The bandages from his hand have long been removed, leaving unmarred pale skin behind. Steve doesn’t know how to feel about having no scars. He figures it’s probably for the best.

Bucky’s been relocated to another floor, he remembers Bruce telling him, so that he and Steve can have some semblance of space between them. He walks there a little nervously, clenching and unclenching his jaw periodically, until he gets to the floor and finds Bucky leaning against the elevator.

For a second, they just stare at each other.

Bucky’s eyes, the color of a storm and normally containing the energy of one, are almost flat. He looks like he hasn’t slept in the entire week they’ve all been split apart, and his pose, although casual-looking, is anything but. His shoulders are hunched in a bit, his jaw set, his hands a little too still. His hair looks like it hasn’t really been washed,

They stand there, and then Steve is opening his arms and Bucky is rushing into them, pressing himself as tight as he can to Steve. Bucky’s head immediately tucks into Steve’s neck, and his breathing is slightly ragged. Steve’s is just as labored and he tucks his nose into Bucky’s hair, his arms wrapped impossibly tight around the other man. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” Bucky says, and pulls away, looking at Steve with only slightly glassy eyes. 

“I missed you, too,” Steve says, smiling slightly, and threads his hand quickly through Bucky’s to squeeze it briefly before pulling away and taking a deep breath.

“I’m nervous,” Bucky says quietly, pressing the button for the elevator. “What if…?”

 _He doesn’t want me anymore,_ goes unspoken, and Steve’s heart clenches. Oh, right. Somehow, he’d nearly forgotten that Bucky and Tony were together, as in dating happily. It’s almost too easy to believe that just then, in his arms, Bucky belonged to him...

When they finally find themselves in front of Tony’s glass workshop, Steve’s heart plummets. The lab is dark with the black out screens of a lock down, and Bucky sucks in a sharp breath beside him.

“Override lockdown, J,” he says, and with a quiet hiss the glass doors slide open, revealing the workshop, brightly lit in some areas, cloaked in shadows in others. 

Tony doing something at one of the lit tables, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up. It seems unusual that Tony’s not working in a wifebeater, but maybe things have changed since he started dating Bucky.

Steve just doesn’t _know_ anymore, and it’s killing him slowly.

Tony looks up when they enter, and just stares at them for a minute, his pencil hovering over the blueprint he’d been working on. His shoulders hunch in a little and he sighs when neither of the men say anything. 

“Are we playing twenty questions now, is that what we’re doing?”

“No,” Bucky says at the same time Steve says, “What’s that?”

No one answers, so Steve looks to Tony, who smiles a little. “It’s what we’re doing now, apparently.” He throws the pencil into a mug and shuts off the light, plunging his little corner of the workshop into darkness.

Another light switch reveals an alcove in the corner of the room neither Bucky or Steve have seen before. It’s a small table tucked near the wall, and there’s a light fixture hanging high above it. Next to it is a hot water machine and a cardboard box full of packets.

There are two chairs there already, so Tony drags a stool over to be used as the third. He waves them over and they sit; Tony turns the hot water maker on.

“Coffee or tea?” he asks, and both Steve and Bucky tense. Tony seems to realize his mistake a second later and quickly pulls out three packets of ground coffee beans. “Coffee it is then, gents.”

When the coffee’s made they all sit down, blowing curls of steam lightly off their drinks. The silence hangs over them for a second, before Tony breaks it, having already gulped down his share of coffee, boiling temperature and all.

“Pepper and I used to do work at this table,” he says, tracing the edge with his thumb. “Glad it’s being used again.” He takes a deep breath and looks at the two of them, making eye contact quickly before looking away. “So? Are we playing twenty questions, or is someone going to talk?”

Steve looks down at his hands and pushes his palms flat against the table until his hands are white with the pressure, before he sighs. “Bucky found out about when we, you know…” he looks quickly up at them before looking down again. “We got into a fight and Bucky left, and when he came to apologize a little later, I provoked hi–”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Bucky snarls. “You did no such thing. I started it both times, and what happened after the second fight was _entirely_ my fault.”

“Yes,” Tony says, clearly growing frustrated, “but I still don’t know what happened.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and locks eyes with Tony, his eyes taking on the resigned look of a man going to war, unsure of whether he’ll come back. “It was too much,” he whispers, and flexes his wrists on the table, twining his fingers together.

“I just couldn't take it anymore,” he says, and his voice cracks.

“Couldn’t take what?” Tony asks gently, understanding that while the information has to be out there, he has to be careful about how he gets it, lest he spook Steve and send him into a panic attack or something.

“All of it,” Steve chokes, and blinks rapidly. “Bucky going off to war, trying to die then _not being able to_ , feeling like I’d betrayed Bucky by liking you–”

“Hold up,” Tony interrupts. “You liked me, Rogers?”

“It’s impossible not to,” Steve says miserably.

“I thought you hated me! Was that not hate sex?”

Steve works his jaw around, trying to figure out to answer. “It was I think you’re brilliant and amazing but I feel like the love of my life died yesterday so I hate myself for feeling this way sex,” he says finally, and despite himself, Bucky snorts.

Tony looks at him with something akin to the morbid curiosity that one watches a car accident with. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Please continue; I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“It’s alright. I just… you get it. It just sort of all built up, and suddenly I just couldn’t stand the thought of being…”

 _Alive. On this earth. Without…_ There are a million ways to end the sentence, but Tony knows to focus on the last thing. No one ever did something so drastic without the absolute concrete notion of there being something they wanted that they believed they would never get.

Love. 

Acceptance. 

Friends.

“What were you missing, Steve,” Tony asks softly, and watches as Steve visibly struggles with himself for a few seconds before Bucky gently takes one of his hands and rubs it once with his thumb before letting it go.

When he responds, “I think you know, Tony,” his voice is ragged and rough, caught on all the thoughts running around his mind, screaming.

Tony does think he knows, and he’s pretty sure Bucky knows too.

He’s completely sure when Bucky softly says, “Steve, when did you fall in love with us?”

“A while ago,” he admits, then laughs breathlessly. “Bucky, I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen. And Tony,” he thinks for a minute. “As soon as I realized what I’d thrown away.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Bucky asks, and he’s speaking as much to himself as he is the other two.

Tony clears his throat and sits a little straighter, setting his jaw for what he’s about to say. “Steve, I think some other things are in order to be said, starting with what I have to say. I understand a lot more now, and I’m so sorry that I contributed, but I can’t just let it go that I’m pregnant with your child. I can’t, Steve. I can’t just completely sweep it under the rug and forgive you, start a friendship, maybe, and just forget about the fact that my daughter is a direct result of both our mistakes. But you know, honestly? I’m looking forward to having a little girl now. I hate how it happened, but also, you’re the one I have to thank for the amazing daughter I’m going to have, so I simply can’t hate you for it. She was, ah, part of the reason I was able to push away from you.

“That being said,” Tony says, and clears his throat. “I, uh, I’m sorry. I pushed you, and I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before, but it really wasn’t my place to do so. I should have remembered Bucky had just passed for you a few months ago, not seventy-four months ago.

Tony takes one last breath. Okay, this is it. “I’d also like to apologize for dating Bucky once you found him.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see a wounded expression crossing Bucky’s face and he hurries to explain. “I really shouldn’t have, not when you’d just found him, but I just was hurt and pregnant and _alone_ and fell for him so easily...”

“Tony,” Steve says, and he smiles a little. “You don’t have to explain to me how easy it is to fall for Bucky Barnes.” His grin slips a little, and he clears his throat. “You’re right, however, that I can’t just sweep everything I did under the rug because I had a mental illness. So, I would like it to be said: I’m sorry. I’m not going to fucking say it again and I know you won’t either, but I am. I really am. I shouldn’t have left you pregnant. Even though I was feeling betrayed, I should have at least stayed for her, because you’re right. She is precious, and very much worth living for.

“I, uh, also shouldn't have kissed you that second time? That was a pretty dick move.”

“I’ll say,” Bucky breaks in, and Tony throws his head back and laughs.

“It was,” he agrees, “but I can’t even be mad, Rogers. It was a hell of a kiss.”

Steve blushes, honest to god blushes, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“You two sorted your shit out, then?”

Tony looks at Steve hesitantly, then nods a little.

“I think we have,” Tony says. “Capsicle?”

Steve suddenly looks very nervous, and Tony raises his eyebrows. “I just… Can I ask you something?”

Tony nods a little, anticipation forming in his gut.

“Your daughter… can I…?”

“Be a part of her life in some form?” Tony asks, and carefully keeps his face emotionless. Steve nods quickly, a quick bob of his head, and Tony rolls the request around in his mind.

“She is yours, too, you know.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not like she’s yours,” he whispers, and Tony inclines his head a bit, because that’s true, but…

“Steve,” he sighs. “We got into this mess because I was being a persistent asshole and you lost control. At this point, I don’t think either of us are quite father material, but then again, yours died when you were young, and mine was an alcoholic who liked making things to kill people.” The corner of his mouth quirks a bit. “I think we’re definitely an upgrade and, Steve?” he asks, and watches the man across from him suck in his breath.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask. Of course you can, but I need some time before she’s actually born, okay?”

Steve nods. “Okay,” he whispers, and clears his throat slightly. “Just so you know, I’m going to therapy now, and I’m on medication. I’m getting help, and Bucky is too, and I won’t let any harm come to her, I promise.”

Tony holds his gaze. He believes him. Once, Steve’s word wasn’t enough. But now? After all that’s happened? It’s everything.

Steve turns to Bucky and nudges his shoulder a bit. “I think it’s your turn, pal,” he says, his voice only a tiny bit scratchy, and Bucky smiles weakly.

“I’m not sure what there is to say,” he admits. “I owe you a thousand and one apologies, Steve, and Tony… I don’t know where to start.”

Tony smiles a little. “I don’t either, truthfully, but maybe this is something to discuss without Cap breathing down our necks.”

Neither of them smile. “No, Tony,” Bucky finally breathes out in a huff. “We can’t keep doing this. I love you,” he says firmly, and Tony suppresses a shiver from the sheer weight of the words and gaze. “But we… moved a little fast, and I sort of forgot I was still in love with Steve too?” He winces. 

“If you want to break up with me, I’ll be heartbroken, but I’ll understand. I–” he clears his throat. “I just wanted you to know. Both of you.”

And to that, Tony doesn’t know what to say. “I’m not breaking up with you,” he says faintly, and turns his head to look at Steve, who’s clenching his jaw so hard it looks as though it’s about to crack. His eyes are fixed firmly on the floor, and if Tony didn’t know better, he’d say he looked as though he was about to cry.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, and a little bit of the light comes back into his eyes. 

“But I also don’t know what to do about this, Bucky. I mean, you can’t date both of us, right?”

Bucky freezes. Steve stops breathing. Tony’s just uncertain. 

“I mean, why not?” Bucky breathes.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Tony says, rearing back. “Steve and I have barely agreed to try being _friends_ , much less boyfriends… don't you think this is moving a bit fast? Don’t we have other things to talk about?”

Bucky nods slowly. “That’s true, but also, I don't really see the point of waiting; Steve and I are getting the help we need, Tony, and if something changes, where we think we won't be able to be in a healthy relationship anymore, we'll let you know. But right now, it might be beneficial to have something to tie us together. Plus," he smirks, "I want my dick sucked. What’s stopping me from dating the both of you?”

“So we’d… share?” Tony asks, and Bucky nods a little hesitantly. 

“Yes…?”

Tony’s not sure if he’s completely on board with the whole sharing thing, but he’s spent enough of his life taking other people’s happiness and strangling it. 

“Steve?” he asks, and the other man looks up slowly.

“You aren’t joking, are you?” he asks fiercely, and Tony nearly recoils from the force of it. 

“No, no,” Bucky hurries to reassure him. “I’m not, we’d really be dating.”

A small smile curls the end of his mouth. “Tony?” he says, his tone shockingly meek.

Tony shakes out his shoulders helplessly. “If Bucky says it’ll make him happy, then I’m all for it.”

Bucky grins, then sobers a little. “Rules?” he asks, and Tony blinks at him. 

Steve looks at Tony. “I’m okay with whatever I get,” he says shakily, and Tony takes a deep breath.

“Everything short of marriage or eloping is fine, I guess, because I do want to be fucked regularly still–” Bucky snorts, “–but maybe as long as there are no sleepovers? Or maybe not that often? I don’t know. I just…”

“...Am not very comfortable with the notion that my boyfriend is literally in another man’s bed,” Steve finishes for him. “I get that.”

Tony releases the breath he’d been holding. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two alone, but, uh, thanks for hearing me out,” he mutters.

“Of course,” Steve says, and he reaches out a hand to place on Tony’s arm as the other man stands up. “Thank you,” he says, all Captain fucking Earnestness, and Tony can’t help but give him a tiny grin. 

“Bucky,” he says, gently removing his arm from beneath Steve’s hand. “I love you, too.”

 _I love Steve, too,_ he thinks as he leaves them in the workshop. _And I’m pretty sure he loves me. But this really isn’t the time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this was boring, and I'm sorry, but we'll be getting some action soon! 
> 
> Please comment! I love replying and seeing what all y'all think. Also, some of you need to chill a little. I know we all have a love-hate relationship with Steve, but he's doing his best, he really is.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lot of sex for some reason and some awkwardness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read the end notes for a chance to name one of the baby's stuffed animals, lol

“Tony,” Bucky says gently, hooking his fingers under the other man’s chin to tilt his head up. “What’s that face for?”

Tony huffs a little. “The man gets two boyfriends and all of the sudden he thinks he’s their babysitter, huh?”

Bucky frowns. “Is that still bothering you?”

Tony carefully distangles his jaw from Bucky’s fingers and looks away. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I think we went a little too fast.”

“Too fast?”

“Bucky, Steve nearly killed himself two weeks ago, and we’re just going to bounce back like that? Resume relationships like nothing happened? One of which has been on pause for _seventy years?_ ”

Bucky tugs his bottom lip in between his teeth before he sighs. “We’re both going to therapy, Tony, and Steve’s on medication and a temporary break from the Avengers. We’re doing all we can, and while I can promise you if something does arise where we’re unhealthy to ourselves or each other, we’ll take a step back, but I really don’t think we need to.”

“Bucky,” Tony says quietly. “I don’t know if I’m ready to have Steve be a part of my life so quickly. You and I have been dating, you and Steve were in love, but Steve and I? We’re just not there. I’m pregnant with his child, because he hated me and I pushed too hard, Bucky, what about this situation seems right to you?”

Tony takes a deep breath and looks down at the glowing blue tablet in his hands. “I think I was a little hasty in agreeing,” he admits, and Bucky cocks his eyebrows, as if saying, _how so?_ “Bucky, I don’t want to be left alone again,” he says, and Bucky softens, going down to the other man’s level so he can very carefully wrap his arms around him.

“Are you worried I’m eventually going to choose Steve over you?” Bucky asks, and he has enough respect for Tony to keep the pity out of his voice. 

Tony nods, because it’s true. He can remember all too well how a light Tony had never seen before had suddenly sprung up in Bucky’s eyes, making them shimmer and sparkle like a lake in the noon sun. He’d been happy to see it, of course he had, but it was more happiness over Bucky being happy than the actual cause for the twinkle. The twinkle is for Steve, and God does his heart ache whenever he thinks about it. More than anything, he’s terrified that Bucky will want his other half back completely, enough to shut Tony out. 

They’re all suspended, and Tony knows that sooner or later they’ll all come crashing down, ending up in one of two ways: either Bucky chooses Tony, or he chooses Steve. There is no alternative to either Steve or Tony getting the boot, and all Tony can do now is pray selfishly that they will fall in his favor.

“Tony,” Bucky murmurs, and gently combs his fingers through the other man’s hair. “You know I love you, right? You know I’m right here.”

“I know,” Tony mumbles back into Bucky’s chest.

Bucky’s arms tighten briefly, contracting and then relaxing like a snake’s coils. “Tony, look at me,” he says, and Tony struggles in his arms to do so, but eventually gets there. Bucky’s eyes are as captivating as always, and once Tony’s are locked on his, it’s all too easy to stay there. Goddammit.

“Tony, I’m still not sure of everything that happened between Steve and I. I don’t have all my memories back and I’m trying, I really am, but I just can’t _remember_.” he continues, and frustration is laced throughout his tone. “But something clicked the other day, a sort of feeling, instead of a memory. It just hit me, all of the sudden, how much I used to love him. And just… just watching him try to end it all because I wasn’t there for him… it was too much for me, too.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can let him go,” he says, and by this point, Tony’s heart has sunk so low, it’s in his shoes. “But here’s the thing,” he whispers, and leans down, lightning quick, to place a feather light kiss on Tony’s lips. It feels like cardboard.

“I love you just as much, please don’t think I don’t. I know that right now, I have to try and be there for Steve to try and make up for the time I wasn’t, if that’s even possible. But the last thing, the absolute last thing I ever want to do, is leave you behind. Tony, I’m serious. You’re amazing and I love you _and_ your baby, and if you really need me to step away from Steve, I can do that. It’ll hurt, but for you, I’ll do it.”

Tony can hardly believe what he’s hearing. 

It’s all he hoped would come out of Bucky’s mouth, the exact words he was subconsciously pushing for earlier, but as he considers saying yes, telling Bucky that yes, he cannot be with Steve, and yes, he needs to be Tony’s, and only his, his mouth begins to taste like ash.

Tony is selfish, but not this selfish.

Steve had just tried to _kill himself_ he was so lonely. Yanking Bucky away so soon after Steve had gotten him back? That would be absolutely devastating for Steve, and Lord knows he’d only try to bottle it up again.

“I’m not going to ask you to do that, Bucky,” Tony whispers, and suddenly he means it, because he gets it. This whole thing doesn’t completely revolve around him, and it _never did_.

“I, uh, I love you too,” he says, clearing his throat, and Bucky beams, before leaning down to kiss him properly, until all Tony can feel is warm and safe and _Bucky_.

“Why don’t you show me how much?” Bucky asks Tony, his mouth leaking hot breath into the shell of the other man’s ear.

Tony shivers, and leans up to nip at Bucky’s collarbone.

“Please.”

-

“So...”

Bucky and Steve sit across from each other on the bed, Steve’s hands firmly tucked into his lap, Bucky’s spread out on the bed to support himself. 

“Yes?” Bucky asks while he cocks an eyebrow, amused.

Steve chuckles awkwardly. “Where do we go from here…?” Uncertainty is pouring off him in waves, so hot and uncomfortable Bucky has to fight off the ridiculous urge to fan himself.

Bucky rolls his eyes. They have time for words later. “Steve, get your ass over here.”

“Over… there?” Steve asks a little nervously, but pushes himself up on his hands and knees. Bucky nods impatiently and Steve obeys, crawling over childishly before sitting down again, his expression doubtful.

Bucky dives forward and kisses him roughly, making quick work of straddling him. Steve’s grunts as his hands fall automatically to the other man’s hips, but kisses back. 

And this? This is new, this is nice, this is _right_. Steve remembers dozens of hundreds of thousands of kisses, soft, quick, searing, loving, passionate… But Bucky has to struggle to remember even one, and even then he’s not sure whether it’s come from his imagination and shower jerk-off fantasies or if it’s an actual, real memory. 

So he lets himself kiss Steve as hard as he wants, as if he’s trying to make up for lost time. It starts on the rough side of sweet, and ends with Bucky licking into Steve’s mouth desperately, pushing Steve back onto the bed while his metal hand flesh hand pins his shoulders to sheets and his flesh hand snakes between their bodies. 

Bucky can’t breathe, and Steve probably can’t either, but dammit, oxygen is overrated anyway. They gasp into each other’s mouths until Steve suddenly rolls his hips, nearly bucking James off with the force of the motion. Bucky just moans and grinds down even further before leaning down to continue making out with Steve.

A hand stops him, however, and Bucky looks down at the other man in confusion.

“Bucky, what?” Steve asks, and God, he looks absolutely _ravished_ with his pupils blown wide and his lips cherry red and glistening with spit. “Wh–” he cuts himself off with a moan as Bucky’s hand finally dives down his very convenient sweatpants to grasp him firmly through his underwear.

“We can talk later, Stevie,” Bucky whispers in his ear, before suddenly rolling and flipping them, until Steve is sitting in Bucky’s lap. With a flex of his abs and a grunt, Bucky sits up, and is finally in a position where he can tug down Steve’s sweatpants, which now seem more cumbersome than convenient. 

He kneads Steve more firmly through his underwear –briefs, sweet Jesus– and Bucky can’t tell if it’s the nickname or the manhandling or they way he’s literally tracing the shape of the other man’s cock through his clothing, but Steve throws his head back like he’s riding Bucky and _moans_ , and Christ, Bucky’s never been this hard in his life. 

Bucky’s not sure of the specifics, but somehow he finally gets Steve’s cock free around the same time Steve pulls out Bucky’s, and then it turns into a race of trying to get the other one off faster. 

Eventually, Steve has the good sense to rip Bucky’s shirt directly off his body, as in tearing the fabric and everything, and Bucky moans obscenely because _God that was so hot_ , but gets the cue and tears off Steve’s.

Then it’s just skin against glorious skin, and Bucky can’t stop his metal hand from taking over so he can run his flesh hand over the planes of the other man’s back and pass feather light over his abs, grinning when he hears Steve curse as he squirms simultaneously towards and away the ticklish touch.

They furiously jack each other off and try to kiss, but it mostly dissolves into Steve burying his head in Bucky’s collarbone while he swears softly in between ragged pants, and Bucky just kisses the side of his neck, careful not to leave marks, before burying his nose in Steve’s hair and moaning as he gets closer to the edge.

A couple minutes later finds Bucky collapsed on the bedspread with Steve lying on top of him, Bucky groaning about how fat Steve is getting. Steve just grins dopily and rolls off of him with an “oof”.

“That was nice,” he murmurs, and Bucky just laughs, turning onto his side to grin at Steve. 

“That was,” he says back, and Steve closes his eyes briefly, before he opens them with a groan and heaves himself up to go get a damp cloth to clean them off with. He even tucks Bucky back into his pants, and somehow, even Steve’s huge but gentle hands can’t get him going again.

“Fuck, I think you broke me,” Bucky groans, and drags himself to go sit at the headboard. At Steve’s questioning glance, he continues: “I can usually go a few rounds,” he says, and winks.

Steve snorts. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, and Bucky frowns.

“You have more of the serum than me, why wouldn’t you know?”

“Bucky, I haven’t had sex in seven months.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at the other man. “Well, sure, but jackin’ off, can’t you go a couple of times?”

Steve shrugs. “I usually get too depressed to even finish once. Lose interest.”

“You lose interest in _touching yourself?_ ”

At Bucky’s incredulous tone, Steve blushes, but stands his ground and nods.

“Jesus, Steve, that’s a new level of depression.”

Steve chuckles. “Don’t I know it.”

Bucky shakes his head, baffled, and leans it against the headboard. “Imagine that,” he says, mystified. “Not even being able to jack off.”

“It’s not actually that bad, you know. You’re just insatiable.”

“And don’t I know it,” Bucky sighs dreamily, and thinks of that one day he went nearly four rounds with Tony before his dick had admitted defeat and Tony had complained about wanting to walk the next day. 

Steve just shakes his head at him, feigning hurt. “I should be lying there,” he says. “I’m the one who just had an orgasm for the first time in seven months.”

Bucky snorts a laugh, and once he gets going he can’t stop until he’s a laughing mess in the middle of Steve’s bed, the man himself just watching in bemusement. It hurts his stomach and he’s really too tired to be giggling like a schoolgirl, but also, by God does it feel good to be happy.

-

Tony raises his eyebrows when he sees Bucky the next morning. 

“I’d like to take credit for that glow,” he drawls, and Bucky smirks, “but I’m guessing you got the first time out of your systems?”

To Tony’s surprise, he doesn’t actually feel any ill feelings towards Steve when Bucky nods happily. Instead, a dull ache in his heart throbs, but it’s way less pronounced than he would ever guess it to be when he thought about this moment of Bucky confirming he was sleeping with another man. He’s… happy for Bucky, he realises with a jolt, and _that_ makes a warm feeling bloom through his chest, soothing the ache. The ache disappears completely when Bucky leans down to kiss him long and slow, murmuring a quiet, “thank you” before turning around and gathering ingredients for pancakes.

“How’s the baby doing?” Bucky asks conversationally, and Tony grimaces, holding up the hot pack he had pressed to his hip.

“The kicks are getting a lot worse,” he admits, “and my back is being a bitch. This morning my hip flared up, too, so here we are,” he says, and rolls his eyes when Bucky very obviously fights a smile.

“It’s not funny, Barnes, I had to sleep with a body pillow last night! A _body_ pillow. I’m embarrassed to go to sleep now; I feel like a teenage girl.”

Someone snorts, but it’s not Bucky. Tony looks up, expecting to see Clint or maybe even Natasha if she’s having a good morning, but instead he feels himself freeze as he notices Steve in the doorway.

His face carefully clears itself except for a small, forced smile, and Tony nods politely at the other man. “Morning, Cap,” he greets, and Steve’s teasing smile evens out into a flat line. 

“Good morning, Tony,” he responds, and sits down at the counter, leaving a stool between him and Tony. 

Tony appreciates it, but now things are awkward and, once again, it’s his fault, so he sighs and turns in his seat. “Steve, it’s nice to see you,” he sighs, and to his surprise, Steve perks up.

“You too, Tony,” he says genially, and Tony finds he doesn’t even have to force the small smile this time.

When Tony looks back to the kitchen, he sees Bucky smiling approvingly, and Tony rolls his eyes. He can get rid of that shit fairly quickly.

“Say,” Tony says, turning back to Steve and makes seemingly innocent eye contact. “Who tops?”

He grins when Bucky swears and nearly burns himself on the stove, knowing even if he did he’d heal in a couple minutes anyway. He watches in delight, however, as Steve blushes a bright crimson, and looks away, giving Tony a good view of his ears which are burning a steady red at the tops. 

Bucky, the bastard, doesn’t even have the audacity to deny anything, or deflect. Instead, he turns and looks Tony straight in the eye, brandishing his spatula sternly. “Don’t be an ass; Steve doesn’t know how to handle that,” he says, ignoring the sputtering from the man himself.

“Oh, believe me, I _know_ he can handle my ass,” Tony shoots back without thinking, and they all freeze, Steve with a stricken look on his face, all the blood in his cheeks draining away as he goes pale. Bucky just goes very, very still.

Fuck.

That was… not what he meant to say. Like, at all.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Tony swears and looks between the two of them apologetically. “My bad. Can we just move past this, please?” he asks, and to his immense relief, both Bucky and Steve nod, Steve looking down at the countertop, Bucky turning back to the stove without a word.

Tony just sighs and looks down at his swollen stomach, silently blaming his hormone-addled mind for saying such a thing. 

-

The pancakes are delicious, actually, drowned in maple syrup and covered in butter. They’re fluffy and sweet, and Tony fights the impulsive urge to lean across the counter and steal a bite of Bucky’s just because, as he usually would during breakfast.

 _His boyfriend is sitting right there,_ he reminds himself, and then realizes he doesn’t actually care, so he does lean across to steal a bite. Bucky raises his eyebrow, but he doesn’t comment, and Tony smirks, satisfied, before shoving the rest of his breakfast in his mouth and standing.

“Alright, well, if that’s all, I do actually have something to get done.”

Bucky smiles a little. “Anything in particular?”

“Yes, actually, if you would visit me around, oh,” Tony feigns checking a watch on his left hand, “five this evening?”

Bucky winks at him. “You got it.”

Tony smiles a little bitterly, chancing a glance at Steve while saying carefully, “you boys have fun, now,” before scurrying out of the room as fast his pregnant body will allow him to, fleeing to the safety of his workshop.

There, he works for the better part of six hours, taking a break only to eat a bag of vinegar and salt chips, wiping his greasy fingers on his sweatpants, the only pants that fit him anymore. In the remaining hour before Bucky is to visit, he covers the project with the same blue cloth he had used to wrap his arm in, and settles down on the couch with his tablet.

His back is, once again, aching, and working for hours on end had done nothing to alleviate the ache. Besides, he has several things he needs to take care of, most of which he should have done months ago. 

The pants, for one. He orders several pairs of bottoms made specifically for pregnant people, which are low-rise pants with a flap that goes over the belly. Tony expects to feel very silly in them and will most definitely be hiding their existence from Bucky on the becoming increasingly rare conditions of them having sex. It’s not that he wants screwing to become rare, it’s just that trying to have a good time with a watermelon in between them is quite the struggle. There’s always the option of hitting it from behind of course, but with Tony’s back and hips, it’s just getting harder and harder… Tony shakes his head, forcing his mind back onto the website he was buying the pants from, firmly clicking the “buy” button. 

The next thing he has to do is send an email to Pepper, because she’s set to visit in two weeks, and Tony feels more excitement than nervousness, to his pleasant surprise. It’s just what he needs. A very much needed distraction from the two testosterone-riddled men who are currently driving him crazy, although one more than the other, to Bucky’s credit.

The last thing is things pertaining to the nursery. There's a door that leads off into a small kitchen that he'll likely use only for storing baby food and formula and warming up bottles, and it's currently blank, only painted white. He desperately wants to paint it, for some odd reason, and the only reason he hasn’t yet is because he wants it to coordinate with the theme. He’s quickly realizing, however, that the idea of coordination has already been thrown out the window. With Natasha’s wildflowers on the wall and Thor’s seven mismatching (but soft) stuffed animals and his solar system mobile, the idea of something to tie it all together is laughable. 

Tony sighs, and spends the rest of the hour reading through and answering work emails, because dammit, all these thoughts of Pepper have been rubbing off on him.

A soft knock signifies Bucky’s arrival, and Tony’s quick to discard the tablet and stand up, only groaning a little. Bucky’s fresh and wet from a shower, and Tony’s not sure why, until he leans closer and spots twin rings around his eyes. 

“You went swimming?” he asks, surprised, and Bucky shrugged.

“Steve wanted to, and I couldn’t think of a reason why not to.”

Of course. Steve. Tony slams down his mind on the train of thought that leads with hoping they enjoyed their swim and ends with him imagining all the ways they could “enjoy” the water. Fuck that, Tony’s too sober to be thinking _anywhere_ along those lines.

As Tony leads a grinning Bucky by the hand to the draped blue fabric. He can feel the insecure statements building up behind his lips, ready to bubble out in choruses of _“I hope you like it but it’s okay if you don’t I mean it didn’t even take that long I’ll build you another or you can buy one”_ , but he slams his mouth closed. This is something Bucky was excited for, and something that Tony had literally asked for his consultation on.

“Ta-da!” is what he says instead as he whips off the cloth and reveals the surprise.

Bucky’s eyes widen and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before spreading all across his face. “You made me the damn thing,” is what he says, and Tony can’t help but snort a laugh. 

“Us scientific folk prefer the term ‘motorcycle’, but yes, I made you the damn thing.”

“God, she’s beautiful,” Bucky says, and walks forwards to run a hand along the bike’s side. 

She really was. Bucky had requested black and Tony had complied, but not before adding streaks of dark navy that glittered like the night sky, and flecks of silver paint that sparkled like stars. Bucky had told Tony that he used to go riding at night when he couldn’t sleep in the months leading up to him joining the military in the forties, and Tony had taken that and ran with it, his thoughts and Bucky’s amounting to the starry beauty that was a motorcycle.

“It looks just like the Harley’s we had,” Bucky breathes, and Tony rocks back and forth on his heels, a grin stretching across his own face.

“I don’t like motorcycles nowadays,” Tony admits. “They’re too big, and I figured you’d be a little more comfortable with this.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Bucky says, pure happiness in his eyes when he says the words, and God, Tony could swoon.

“You’re welcome, love. Hug before you go?”

“Go?”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “I give you a shiny new bike and you’re not even going to steal out into the night with it?”

“I’m not Batman, doll,” Bucky chides gently, and Tony grins. 

“I don’t care. It’s yours now, and I want you to try it out.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky says, and goes around the bike to hug Tony as tightly as he can from behind, because the baby bump is comfortable for exactly no one.

“Love you,” he says, and pecks Tony’s cheek.

Tony smiles and turns his head kissing the side of Bucky’s neck. “I love you, too. Now get, or I’ll think you don’t like it and give it to Clint.”

Bucky gasps in mock outrage. “You wouldn’t!”

Tony nods solemnly. “I would.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and swats his boyfriend’s arm, but he does end up riding the damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEED YOUR HELP: we're all aware that Thor got Tony seven stuffed animals, and with the exception of the purple stuffed platypus, we don't know the other six. I have ideas, but if yall want to recommend some cute animal that could be one of the stuffed animals in the comments, I might add yours in! Feel free to name it, and I'll give credit in the next chapter :)
> 
> be creative with it (make it a weird color or give it a unicorn horn or wings or something) and give me a response, or dont. It's totally your call, and I know no ones going to probably do it, but the offer's open!
> 
> Please please comment; I love responding to y’all
> 
> last thing: the body pillow thing was just me giggling about how justin bieber body pilows used to be all the rage lol


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thor gets creative with some animal nametags and the animals he puts the tags on, steve has a bad day, tony gets surprised with some door painting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last two chapters will all be condensed into one when I release next weeks chapters, because they're a little too short on their own

Many moons have passed, the seasons scrambling on their tails like dogs running after a mail truck, leaving behind the memories of fiery leaves and cold frozen water and rains and sunshine.

It was time to return to Midgard, but Thor’s mind was buzzing with thoughts related to something other than his pending visit to see his friends. 

_Yellow, or green?_

_Red, or orange?_

_Blue, or teal?_

_Purple, or–_

“Thor,” a gentle female voice says, interrupting the god’s thoughts. “You’ve been embroidering all day. Perhaps it’s time to take a break?”

“Marire,” Thor says thoughtfully, instead of answering his favorite maid. “What do you think of this one? I’ve made it for the dead duck animal that is for the Man of Iron’s kin. Do you approve of the name?”

“Qua-cakers?” the young woman asks, tucking the linens she’d been carrying under one arm and delicately holding the fabric of her robes as she leans over the god’s shoulder.

“Quackers,” Tony corrects, with a frown. “It is the sound the Midgard animal makes. Quack Quack.”

Marire stifles a laugh in her hand. “You’ve spelled it wrong, Thor. That says “Qua-cakers, not Qua-ckers.”

Thor glares at the little cloth tag in distaste, before sighing and reaching for the bright orange animal itself, pulling it from between the cushions of the couch he’d been working on. He stubbornly ties the offending name tag around one foot and holds it up for Marire’s speculation. 

She can’t quite hide her laughter this time. “It looks lovely,” she squeezes out, and Thor huffs, casting a glance to the corner, where the other five stuffed animals lay against the wall, all with bizarre colors and features and cloth name tags with names (that Thor thought long and hard about, dammit), embroidered onto them.

“I needed a hobby,” he mutters to Marire, and the maid clucks her tongue, shifting her linens back to both arms.

“They look lovely,” she says, “I’m sure the baby will love them.”

“They better,” Thor rumbles in agreement, glaring at the innocent duck in his arms and cursing himself all the while. 

_Quackers._ Not _Quacakers._ Dammit.

-

Thor returns to Midgard the next day, laden down with his cloth-covered stuffing-filled animals, and his presentation of them to Bucky and the father-to-be goes something like this:

“They’re, uh…” Tony coughs, and looks down at his feet, desperately trying to compose his smile before looking up again. Bucky stomps on Tony’s foot subtly, clearly trying to hide laughter of his own, and Tony hisses, but it works. He’s able to look back up at Thor with nothing but an earnest expression covering his face. Or so he hopes.

“They’re lovely,” he finishes, and gestures over to the chair where Thor can deposit them. Thor put down the abundance of stuffed animals and turned to face them, smiling widely.

“I even named them,” he says, grinning proudly.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up and he leans over to pick up a blue paisley rhino, eyeing the name tag hanging from his horn. “Tank?”

Thor nods, and this time Tony can’t help the bubble of laughter. “Thank you, they’re wonderful. I’m sure she’ll enjoy them.”

Now Thor is gone, probably to go see the rest of the team, and Tony has returned to the workshop to do God knows what, and Bucky’s just left in the nursery.

He takes time to look at the room. Since painting the walls for Tony, the room hasn’t changed a lot, but there are a few noticeable differences. For one, the wall is full of beautiful, vibrant flowers, and they even curl up around the posts of the crib in the corner. They’re breathtakingly drawn and delicate and _perfect_ , but Bucky still finds himself thinking, _Steve could’ve done better._

The mobile has been assembled by now, nine tiny planets hanging limply next to a sun in the middle. Bucky had asked, before, why there were nine. He’d been doing some basic catch-up, and apparently nowadays, Pluto wasn’t considered a planet. Tony explained that yes, technically Pluto wasn’t included as a planet anymore, but he loved the little celestial body too much to _not_ put it on the mobile. Bucky had made like the Beatles, and let it be.

A large square shelving unit with cubicles and drawers for clothes and diapers sits in the corner of the room, painted in green and yellow with some more wildflowers dotted throughout. The top has a changing pad already set up, although the cover isn’t on it yet; it’d only collect dust. That’s where the purple platypus, Bucky bear, and other six mismatched creatures sit now in a sea of odd features and colors and names.

It’s absolutely perfect, and Bucky knows Tony’s been wanting to paint the door, but he doesn’t really think it’s necessary. Unless…

Bucky knocks on Steve’s door, waiting impatiently for the door to open. 

It doesn’t.

“Steve?” he calls, and raps on the door harder. “Jarvis, you said Steve was in his room.”

“He is.”

“So why isn’t he opening the door? J, I’m getting worried, is he alright?”

“Mister Rogers’ vitals are steady, although he has not moved from one position for a while.”

“Ah, shit,” Bucky swears, and tries the door handle. To his surprise, it’s open, so he creeps forwards uncertainly, noticing at once how none of the lights are on.

“Steve?”

“I’m here,” a quiet voice mutters from the bedroom, and Bucky has no doubt that without his super hearing he would not have been able to hear the quiet words. When Bucky pushes open the door to the room, he finds it nearly pitch black with the curtains pulled tightly over the windows and the lights very firmly _off._

There’s a Stevie-shaped lump under the bed covers, and Bucky can see blond hair poking out of the top.

“What are you still doing in bed? Are you sick?”

“No,” Steve answers, and his voice sounds dejected.

Bucky carefully rounds the bed until he can see Steve’s face, and notices the heavy bags under his eyes and the thin line of his mouth.

“Did you sleep at _all_ last night?”

Steve swallows harshly and shakes his head a little, before burrowing further into his blankets. “I don’t want to get up,” he whispers.

Bucky’s heart melts, but he doesn’t let his expression show. “That’s okay, Steve. Here, wait one moment while I get you some food, though, okay?”

“I’m not hungry.” Bucky knows this should be a lie, seeing as it’s eleven in the afternoon and Steve still hasn’t left his bed, but somehow, he gets the feeling he’s telling the truth.

“Well, I am, okay?”

Steve doesn’t respond so Bucky leaves, walking to the corner of the living room farthest away from the bedroom. Steve will still be able to hear him, of course, but he’s choosing to ignore that for the time being.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at his messages for a long time. It’s obvious Steve is going through something, and although his instincts scream at him to text Tony, because Tony will know what to do, Tony _always_ knows what to do, he knows that with everything going on between Tony and Steve, that’s probably not the first thing he should do.

So he clicks on the row to open his messages with Dr Matty, firing off a quick text, his thumbs racing across the screen. 

She responds in a matter of seconds, something Bucky appreciates, telling him that Steve is having a bad day, depression wise, and that to help him he should try to get him as stimulated as possible.

Armed with instructions, Bucky reenters Steve’s room, crossing the floor to pull open the curtains. Light floods the room, washing everything in the bright yellow of the midday sun, and Steve hisses. Bucky pays no mind and very gently pulls the covers away from Steve’s chin a bit, muttering to his friend all the while. 

“C’mon Stevie, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to sit up for me, okay? I won’t make you leave your room, I just need you to sit up and drink and eat something, alright?”

Steve grumbles and makes no move to get up, so Bucky arranges him for himself, propping the other man against the headboard. Steve thunks his head back against it and stares, dead-eyed, at the ceiling. He looks like a bomb could go off in the room over and he wouldn’t care. Bucky hates seeing him like this, but he knows there’s not much he can do beyond trying to make sure he doesn’t spiral.

He leaves Steve for a minute to go to the small kitchen. He pulls out an apple and fills a mug with water to be put in the microwave, intending to make tea. All the metal knives have been removed from Steve's kitchen, just in case, and all that remains are flimsy plastic pieces of cutlery that bend when pressed too hard against anything.

He sets a tea bag into the hot water-filled mug and leaves it to steep while he takes his time cutting the apple, only putting the slices on a plate when the tea is ready.

“Mind smelling this for me, Steve?” he asks when he presents the meager snack to the other man.

“Why?” Steve asks dully, but he leans forwards obediently and sniffs the hot tea, some of the steam wafting from the cup scattering when he breathes out harshly afterwards.

Bucky shrugs and gives him the drink and apples, telling him to eat at least three slices and drink half the cup. Steve obliges with the same kind of resignation as before, and Bucky’s heart _aches_ for the man.

“Think we can go on a walk?” he asks Steve, an idea already forming, and Steve shakes his head, muttering, “I don’t want to leave.”

“Not at all?”

Steve nods, and pushes away the apple and tea. “Go away,” he mumbles, shifting back down the bed. “Just let me sleep, Buck.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “Afterwards,” he promises, “but I want to show you something first. I know you feel like you don’t want to do anything, but I need you to come with me.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Bucky insists. “Don’t make me call Tony.”

“Tony won’t care,” Steve mutters, and turns away from Bucky and the sunlit window. 

“You don’t mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” comes the weak reply, and Bucky sighs. 

“You can go back to bed after I show you,” Bucky says, and Steve ignores him.

“Alright, that’s it,” Bucky decides, yanking the covers away. “Steve, I know you’re feeling awful and I know you don’t want to get up, but I need to see something, to _do_ something, for me. I need you to make an effort.”

“I don’t want to,” Steve grumbles, but he swings his feet over the side of the bed. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and though not quite ideal attire for flouncing around the Tower, Bucky’s also fairly certain that a suggestion of putting on any other clothes will only end them up where they were ten seconds ago.

Best to not push his luck.

Although, maybe a little pushing couldn’t hurt? “Do you want a sweater or something, Steve?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders and curls in on himself. “Can we just go, please?”

“Okay.”

They walk out of the room, Steve trailing Bucky like a shuffling dog, until Bucky reaches the elevator. They’re silent the entire ride, but Bucky can see Steve shivering slightly.

“Here,” he says, pulling his own jumper over his head and holding it out in offering it to the other man. Steve doesn’t even acknowledge it, and Bucky yanks it back on with a sigh. A couple of hallway lengths from the elevator takes them to the now closed door, and Steve leans his bare side against the cold wall.

Bucky opens and holds the door for him, inviting him inside. Steve files in silently, moving to lean against the wall just inside the room.

“What’s this?” he rasps, and Bucky smiles a little, stepping in beside him. “The nursery.”

“For… for her?”

“Yeah.”

“I – why would you show me this?”

“I wanted you to see,” Bucky says simply. 

“There’s no point,” Steve says mournfully, pitifully, and Bucky kind of wants to kick him for the moment of weakness and vulnerability, for those words full of self-pity. This really isn’t the time. He’s trying to _help_ Steve. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, instead, and lets Steve slowly push himself off the wall and have a look around, his cornflower blue eyes taking in every detail hungrily. It’s like he forgets Bucky is there when he trails his fingers through the strings holding the tiny planets over the crib, or runs a hand gently over the flowers choking the walls.

Belatedly, Bucky finds himself thinking of Natasha again. How many hours has she spent in this room with just her and the paint fumes, painting delicate petals with strokes of a brush?

“She did a good job,” he mutters, and Bucky can’t stop himself from blurting out, “you think you could have done better?”

Steve turns and looks at him for a long, long second, his eyes boring into Bucky’s. “It doesn’t matter,” he concludes, and turns away, saying, “why did you bring me here?”

“Because I think it does matter,” Bucky answers. “See that door over there? You _could_ do better. There’s your chance to do better.”

Steve swallows. “He won’t want me painting in – in his daughter’s room,” he chokes out, and Bucky almost flinches, but manages to recover himself.

“Steve,” he says firmly. “Look at me.” Steve does, with eyes that look suspiciously glassy. “She’s your daughter too. I know it doesn’t seem that way right now, and I know that you don’t feel like you deserve her with everything between you and Tony, but painting a door in a room for her when she’s not even born yet? There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s the least you can do. I thought you said you wanted to be a part of her life?”

Steve swallows hard. “Won’t he be mad? Shouldn’t we ask?”

“Nah, he won’t be mad. And, you know what? If he is mad, he can always just paint over it and ask Natasha to put some more flowers there.” Bucky sighs. “Steve, you’re killing yourself with all this distance shit. You miss him, and I know he misses you, on some twisted level, so just start, you know…”

“I don’t.” 

“You don’t what? Miss him?”

“There’s nothing to really miss him from. We were never friends,” Steve mumbles, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “I’ll do it, Bucky, because you’re right, I can do better, but it’s not for him, alright? It’s for her.”

Bucky nods, because what is there to say?

-

“Who did this?” Are Tony’s first words when he walks into the nursery for the first time in a few days. Similar to what he had done with Steve, Bucky had dragged Tony in there telling him he had something he needed to show him, and Tony, like Steve, had stupidly tagged along.

Bucky, internally bouncing on the balls of his feet, responded simply, “Steve.”

“ _Steve_ did this? You asked him?”

Bucky nods. “You said you wanted that door painted, so I offered it to him.”

“Bucky, this isn’t your baby, you know.”

Fuck. That kind of stung. He knew it, of course he knew that the little girl in Tony wasn’t his, but to hear it so blatantly said, just flung out carelessly, it made something hot and sharp twist inside of him, carving a deep hole. It hurt, actually, really really fucking bad. 

He scrambles to come up with something to say, anything to cover the tidal wave of emotion threatening to burst out from his chest, to compose his facial expression, but he must have missed it by a mile based on the way Tony’s own face scrunches up in regret. It’s almost from another room that Bucky hears himself say, “It’s Steve’s though.”

Tony takes his statement and runs with it, wisely not saying anything about Bucky’s brief lapse of composure. “That’s true,” he agrees, then sighs, rubbing his belly.

He walks over to the door and takes in every detail of the pencil marks covering it, the sweeping lines and jagged slashes. “Is this… Iron Man?”

Bucky nods, a small smile coming back to his face. “He thought it would look nice, with it being her soon-to-be favorite superhero.”

Tony laughs a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little. “God, sometimes I forget what a people-pleaser he is.”

Bucky frowns. “He’s not a people-pleaser, he just thought it would look nice.”

“Never mind, Buckaroo,” Tony says, turning to his boyfriend and smiling, before waddling over to the nursing chair and sinking down into it with a sigh. “This feels so good, you have no idea.”

“I really don’t,” Bucky agrees, going over to the dresser to gather all the stuffed animals in his arms. He plops down between Tony’s legs, setting out the animals in front of him. “What do you think he was thinking, with these?”

Tony snorts. “Hell if I know. Here, hand me that red cat named, uh, Chili?”

“Flerken,” Bucky corrects, handing over the damn thing. 

“Its name is Flerken? It says Chili right there!” 

“ _No,_ ” Bucky says, laughing, “Thor says it’s a flerken. It’s another animal, apparently. Has tentacles, or something.” Bucky wiggles his fingers a little, and Tony cuffs him upside the head. 

“You’re such a dork,” he laughs, and Bucky looks confused, as if he didn’t know what a dork was. _He probably doesn’t,_ sighs Tony inwardly. Of course he had to be in love with two men who were most definitely born before World War II even ended, much too early to understand early 90s pop culture references.

“Okay,” Tony announces, patting the ca– _flerken_ on the head before setting it aside. “Hit me with the next one. Not Tank, though, I already saw him.”

Bucky tosses a red panda with sparkly translucent wings over his shoulder, and Tony catches it neatly, letting out a breath in a whistle. “She’s going to _love_ this,” he says, and Bucky nods in agreement. “Is this one of those little red raccoon things they have at the zoo?”

“A red panda, sir,” Jarvis corrects, and Tony thanks him, turning the animal in his hands. His mouth drops into a straight line and he dangles the animal in front of Bucky’s face. 

“He named the little fucker Napoleon,” Tony says, and despite himself, Bucky can’t help but burst into laughter. 

“That’s wonderful,” he cackles, and Tony grumbles, “Yes, hilarious.”

“I think he’s just fucking with you at this point,” Bucky says, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Thor’s not like that. If he says a cat’s a flerken and a red panda fairy’s named Napoleon, then that’s what they are.”

“Seriously, Tony? Look at the rest of them. A paisley rhino named Tank, a blue and orange octopus named Pebbles, an offensively colored duck named Quacakers, and a yellow and red sloth named _Speedy_. You can’t make this shit up.”

“Maybe not,” Tony agrees mournfully, then perks up. “Can I see Speedy?”

-

Bucky tucks his hands in his pockets, shivering a little, but not much. The cold doesn’t really bother him anymore. He doesn’t have a hat this time, but his hair, now longer than it ever has been, sweeps over his shoulder and catches on his ears, hiding his jaw from view.

Dr Matty suggested that he, a little at a time, worked his way up to being more comfortable around people. As the Winter Soldier, he had never cared about people around him, because he had a mission. As Bucky Barnes? He did care. He cared to the point of his breath coming a little short and panicky when someone stared too long, and the point to where he didn’t want to go out without something to cover himself, especially his face.

 _But that’s why you take the hat off,_ she’d explained in a soothing voice that made Bucky want to punch her, just a little. _You can keep your hair down, but I want you to get used to not being so covered. Plenty of people have anxiety, and that’s fine, but we can’t let our mental inner-workings get in the way of the lives we want to have. Just breathe through it if you feel overwhelmed._

That’s what he is doing now, actually. It’s early December and the weather has gotten cold, but not to the point that breath comes out in clouds. If it was, everyone on the street would be able to see puffs and puffs of slightly condensed breath vanish into the air, a constant stream of wispy grey trailing from the man’s lips as he struggles to get himself under control.

Bucky’s not sure where he’s going, actually, but he does know that there will be a place he ends up, if he just lets his feet take him. Some time passes and he notices he’s back in the alleyway, the one where Tony threw up, Winter brought him some water, and the pair separated for a long time.

It’s dirty and grimy and bits of chewed up gum are stuck to the walls and cobble-stoned floor, discolored wads that are hard to the touch and probably harder still to chew. There’s a greasy puddle next to a rubbish bin, the unidentifiable liquid creased by swirls of colorful… oil? Bucky doesn’t know. 

Between the gum, and the oil puddle and the likelihood of that puddle not actually being oil but actually piss, it doesn’t seem like a very good spot to have a rest. Bucky does, anyway. 

It’s quiet here, and he knows no one will bother him. He sits and rests his back against the dirty wall, breathing through his mouth to escape the unshakable stench of piss and vomit all alleyways seem to inevitably produce.

-

They jump from the roof, that’s the only explanation. That’s the only explanation for men suddenly raining down on James Buchanan Barnes, catching him off guard and trying to hold him down even as Bucky attempts in vain to struggle to his feet. He does get to them, eventually, but there are simply too many, and fuck, someone’s stabbed something into his metal arm, into his shoulder, and it’s just white blinding pain, and through it all, the single pinprick of needle below his right ear, before the world slowly slides out of existence with tentacle-like tendrils of light escaping as the black closes over.

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so fucking sorry. feel free to scream at me in the comments, I know I deserve it.
> 
> also, i just felt the need to include more about the mental illness stuff, because i didn't want to just forget about it.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to these wonderful people:  
> Lori & ValeriaRichardStark - flerken/red cat named chili  
> V & littleonevixen - blue octopus  
> Jacey - wonderful names  
> littleonevixen - red panda w/ fairy wings  
> AmericaIronSoldier - Quacakers the duck (I’m sure you didn’t intend the typo but it made me laugh really hard, so thank you)  
> Gottoomanyships - speedy the sloth  
> ShadowsintheClouds - the paisley rhino
> 
> it means so so much to me that you guys gave me this to work with, and to those of you who commented but I didn't use your suggestion, I'm really sorry, but they were also lovely!
> 
> last thing, I've almost completely lost track at this point, but lets pretend Tony's 29 weeks, or almost seven months, along. I smell a baby within in the next, oh, four chapters, or so? (hopefully two but I'm giving myself breathing room)
> 
> LAST THING - should i name chapters? i'm unsure about it but it would make things easier to look back on and find


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky follows through with his epic escape plan and Tony realizes that he and Steve need to at least try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im going to update every two weeks, cannot keep up.

Tony’s fingers worked feverishly across the keyboard, flying across the keys as fast as he could possibly make them go. Steve, behind him, is wearing a groove into the floor of the workshop, running fingers through his hair and breathing harshly.

Tony desperately wants to turn around and ask him if he’s okay, if there’s anything he can do, because fuck, this has got to be setting Steve back some in his mental health, but all he can hear and feel is the roaring blood in his ears, drowning every other thought. He wants to scream and cry, loudly, but he knows that won’t help anything.

What will help him, however, is the tracker embedded in Bucky’s arm. If only he could… god _damn_. Tony throws up his hands in disbelief, swearing a blue streak. 

“It’s gone,” he breathes. “Just fucking gone…”

“What?” Steve asks sharply, and looks up, pinning his gaze to Tony’s. His eyes are wild, panicked. “I thought you said you could track him. Through his arm.”

“I should be able to,” Tony says unflinchingly, “but it’s been disabled, somehow.”

“Can you able it again?”

“Able? Can I just _able_ it back on? No, Rogers, I cannot just _“able it back on”_. That’s not how these things work.”

“Well isn’t there _anything_ you can do?” Steve asks desperately, and Tony shakes his head, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration.

To his horror, there are tears collecting just behind his eyes, a blindingly hot pressure that’s just begging to spill over. Tony blinks them back. Between him and Steve, he needs to be the strong one here. “I don’t know,” he chokes out in a strangled voice that absolutely conveys he had been about to cry. “I just don’t _know_.”

“Can we ask Fury? The other Avengers? Put an ad in the paper?” Good Christ, if Steve’s already campaigning to put a monochrome picture in the newspaper he really is getting desperate.

He’s still spitballing ideas though, and Tony needs him to stop. Like, now. “Steve,” he snaps, the change of name from last to first going unnoticed by both men, “the only thing I can do right now is try to find some sort of footage. We’ve already looked in all the places he could have been, and no one’s seen him. And, to be honest, who’s going to remember him? You’ve seen how he leaves the Tower.” Tony sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ve already alerted Fury, I’ve filed for a missing person’s report, I’ve tried accessing everything I possibly could in his arm, I’ve tried… so much fucking more that I know would go right over your head, frankly, so all I’m asking for is a little patience, alright? I want him back just as much as you do, and believe me, I’m _trying_.”

“I know you are,” Steve says, his breath still a little uneven and shallow. “I know you are,” he repeats, “but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s _more_.”

“Well, there’s isn’t,” Tony snaps, finally at his end. “Now, will you please get out? I can’t focus when you’re just acting all harried in my peripheral vision.”

Steve spins on his heel and leaves, taking much of Tony’s energy with him. He sinks down into a chair and rests a hand gently on his stomach, drawing silent support from his unborn daughter, before burying his head in both hands. 

He’s startled when the first chuckle comes, but then there’s another, and another, and soon it’s all he can do to stop himself from pitching forwards onto the cold, unforgiving floor and curling up in foetal position. Bucky’s gone, just… gone. 

Then he keeps laughing hysterically, because of all the people he expected to be leaving him now, Bucky was the last one. Sure, Bucky had left him before, and okay, maybe Tony had been worried he was going to a couple of weeks ago, but now? Never.

Tony throws his head back and cackles until his throat is sore and the peals of laughters sound forced, because the whole situation is just so _fucking_ funny. Oh God, it’s like he’s in a bad movie. His lover gets kidnapped, and the main man is left with his lover’s (for lack of a better word) mistress, who, by coincidence, happened to knock the man up. The mistress and the man are already on shaky terms, so clearly what they need is one of the two things tying them together to leave.

Tony wishes the credits would roll already. He’s done with this shit.

[]

Bucky’s head thumps rhythmically against the side of the van as the old car trundles slowly down the road, setting off a raging headache Bucky knows isn’t just from whatever he got knocked out with.

His ears are fuzzy through the pounding of his head, but he can very vaguely make out the sounds of the driver and the passenger side arguing fiercely, their voices growing louder and louder as they grow more and more agitated. They’re quarreling about whether or not to make a gas stop, and they sound like they’re already running late. One of them insists they have time, the other doesn’t.

He shifts his head slightly into a dip in the van wall and, thankfully, his head stops thumping, prompting him to sigh in relief, although the worst of the pain doesn’t go away. Honestly, Bucky couldn’t care less. He’s more concerned with where he is, and by extension, how long he’s been traveling. Despite the lethargy and pain, he realizes he’s actually quite famished, and his mouth feels as though someone’s dumped a bag of sand down his throat. 

Taking further inventory of himself and his surroundings reveals that there are two windows, although Bucky can only see the one across from him as he’s leaning against the other. They’re maybe the size of his torso, and Bucky feels like there’s something about this that’s important, but his gaze drifts to the several boxes scattered around the vehicle back with Bucky, all of them labeled with a company name that, if Bucky remembers correctly, makes shoes. He vows to investigate later, but the thought of doing anything more than attempting to sit up makes him want to curl up even further. 

His eyes are already trying to slide shut against the wave of exhaustion that comes with coherent thought, but Bucky stubbornly opens them wider. He can feel the beginnings of an escape plan tickling the edge of his consciousness, something to do with the boxes, and the little window in the divider that the driver can just be seen through, and the gas stop…

He loses the battle and his eyelids start inching shut, his thoughts growing harder and harder to hold onto…

[] 

“Tony.”

“What?” Tony snaps, not looking up from his tablet.

“You need to get some rest.”

“No I don’t, Cap. Fuck off.”

If the use of the nickname bothers Steve, he doesn’t show it. He crosses his arms, flexing warningly with Tony looks up, trying to show he means business. 

Tony just snorts and rolls his eyes. “Half a year of fucking another super soldier has robbed me of any chance to feel intimidated by your muscles,” he says drily. “Put them away.”

Steve drops his arms sheepishly, and rubs the back of his neck. “Can you _please_ come up, then? You’ve been down here for over forty-eight hours, and Jarvis says you haven’t slept or eaten the entire time.”

“Traitor,” Tony mutters, but stubbornly goes back to the screen in his lap, clenching his jaw when he finds the screen black. “Jarvis, give me back my electronics.”

“Sir, Captain Rogers is correct. You need to sleep.”

“No I don’t,” he argues, trying in vain to turn the device back on or override whatever Jarvis did to the tablet, all the while trying to remember what he was working on in the first place. “I’ve worked for longer before.”

“You weren’t pregnant, then,” Steve reminds him softly, making Tony flinch, his system flooding with guilt. As much as he might be loath to admit it, Steve and Jarvis were right. Staying up this long and putting unnecessary strain on his body wasn’t good for him or the baby, and Bucky would have been horrified if he had been here.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Jarvis, nighttime protocol. Rogers, get the fuck out.”

Hurt flashes through Steve’s eyes, but he doesn’t budge. “You need sleep in a real bed,” he insists, and Tony grinds his teeth together.

“You offering to carry me to one?” he asks, actually curious to see how the other man will answer.

“If that’s what it’ll take,” Steve says evenly, maybe too evenly, and Tony’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Would you really?”

“Tony, you need to listen to me. I need Bucky back just as bad–” _need_ , Steve says, not _want_. Belatedly, Tony realizes he’s right. Getting Bucky back _is_ a need, not a want. He wonders when Bucky started holding this place in his heart. “–but there’s nothing we can do right now, so please just take a break, in _a real bed._ ”

“Are you actually worried for my well-being, Rogers, or are you just doing this to try to annoy me? Because I am _not_ in the mood.”

“Dammit, Tony, this isn’t supposed to be hard.” Steve sounds tired as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I think I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Can you? Can you really?” Steve asks, looking up incredulously.

“Yes,” Tony says through gritted teeth. “You’re not my babysitter, Rogers.”

Steve throws up his hands. “Why are you so bent on disobeying orders? Why can’t you do what’s asked of you for once in your life?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were handing out orders, _Captain_ ,” he sneers, and Steve’s eyes flash.

“I’m not,” he says through gritted teeth. 

Steve’s fists are clenching at his sides, and Tony knows that fighting is the last thing either of them need right now. Still, there’s some sick, twisted part of Tony’s mind that is leaping at the chance to rile Steve up, to make him react this way. He knows it’s wrong and he really, really shouldn’t, but it’s been so long since he properly got a rise out of someone. Bucky and his pregnancy have made him go soft.

“Then why are you here?” Tony asks flatly, and Steve’s jaw works once, twice, obviously chewing on words he’s debating whether or not to spit out. He doesn’t, though,and the fight bleeds out of him on one big exhale, his shoulders curving in on his frame and his head hanging a bit.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, turning on his heel and making it to the glass workshop door before turning slightly on the threshold and looking back. “Just get some sleep,” he says, and leaves Tony sitting in his workshop, feeling oddly bereft of something.

Tony does not, in fact, get any sleep. At least not right away. More pressing is his rumbling stomach, already being lanced through with flashes of hunger pains. Damn the second human inside him needing food, too.

He takes the elevator up to the kitchen, slumping exhaustively against the railing lining the metal walls and running a hand idly up and down his swollen stomach. At this point, he’s more than accustomed to the fact that he’s going to have a tiny human, and soon. And yet, even as he approaches his delivery date in four or so weeks, he can’t help but think that something’s missing. 

Materialistically, everything’s there. The painting on the door is the last thing that needs to be finished in the nursery, and Tony has done so much research on baby clothes and things you should buy for them that he’s this close to saying _fuck it_ and just buying a Baby Depot. Thankfully, he hasn’t quite reached the point of brashness yet, but he feels like he’s getting close.

So no, it isn’t the stuff he’s worried about, or even his daughter, by extension. The doctor’s informed him several times that his body and the baby will be fine before, during, and after the delivery, and there’s nothing he should really be worrying about (he does, anyway. It’s something all expectant people do).

He’s spent quite a bit of time thinking of himself, however, and what kind of father he’ll make. The thought used to terrify him, used to send him right over the edge and into a panic attack, but then his thoughts would switch to Bucky, sweet Bucky, who was a little rough around the edges and maybe made some rash decisions, but definitely a man who would make sure Tony never turned out to be the father Howard was.

Unbidden, a reminder of something Tony’d said came to mind. _“Bucky, this isn’t your baby, you know.”_

What an awful thing to say, first off, and second, that wasn’t really true, was it?

Sometimes Tony wondered if the baby was as much as Bucky’s as it was his, or Steve’s, for that matter. He’d pulled that card because he was the one with the actual human inside him, but in reality, he couldn’t really say he’d actually wanted it. Neither had Steve, of course, a fact he definitely demonstrated by not telling Tony about it in the first place and then fucking off to go find another man.

But Bucky? Bucky had known before Tony did, and had accepted it from the very beginning. Tony thinks that there were some instances where the Winter Soldier definitely could have broken through more and used Bucky to attack Tony. After all, what connection did he have to him? They were strangers to each other, and Iron Man was a threat, making Tony one, too. And yet, Winter hadn’t. Probably because of the pregnancy. No matter how much of a monster you were, you had to be a specific kind of evil to attack a pregnant person.

But even after Winter was, for the most part, shoved into a tiny box never to be opened again, Bucky had still stayed. He’d immediately accepted the pregnancy as part of Tony, and had treated him no different than anyone else. He never explicitly said anything, of course, but Tony knows that Bucky was ready to step in the minute the baby was born. 

He just _knows_.

So maybe that’s what’s missing…? Although that does seem a little obvious. Of _course  
_ Bucky is missing. That’s the whole reason that Tony is riding this train of thought in the first place.

Occasionally, when his defenses are low and his mind is too tired to try and regulate his notions, Tony's thoughts will drift to a specific scene, one that makes his heart flutter and stomach drop in the most pleasant way, and the corners of his mouth curve up in a grin. 

Maybe Bucky would be cooking pancakes for breakfast while Tony leaned against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, a baby girl bouncing on his hip. Bucky would lean over in the middle of cooking to kiss him gently on the forehead, and then smack a loud one on the little girl’s cheek until she shrieks with laughter, grinning widely with not enough teeth to make it a proper smile. Then Bucky would turn around, facing the doorway and bearing a large plate of fluffy hotcakes waiting to be drenched in syrup, and he would offer to the man who’d just come through the door, a man with blond hair that was sweaty and sticking to his forehead and huge grin. A man that would cross the room with the plate in his hand and lean down to give Tony a kiss and then his daughter one…

Tony is startled out of his reverie when the doors of the elevator open with a slight hiss, exposing him to the empty kitchen. He _slams_ his mental process down and breathes harshly, trying his best to seem unaffected as he goes and grabs a premade sandwich out of the fridge, unwrapping it and chewing on it almost angrily.

_Fuck._

That was ridiculously mean for him to think of, after everything he’d done to Steve. Of course, his actions aren’t unprecedented, but Tony still hasn’t been the kindest he can be either.   
It was just so… complicated, at the moment, and to add Steve like that, add him to a scene where he was Tony’s family, it seems almost unfair to him.

And to even be thinking of that in the first place…

Tony shivers. He hasn’t even known he’s wanted that as much as he does, and the warmth he’d felt from even imagining something like that, where they were all together, in love… Tony rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose, groaning softly under his breath. He’s an awful, awful man, thinking of his lover’s boyfriend while said boyfriend was _missing_...

But, surely, this is what Bucky would have wanted? He already has the both of them, what would be better than Tony and Steve getting together too? Maybe it’s unfortunate that the circumstances had to arise like this, but Tony refuses to entertain the idea that Bucky isn’t going to come back. It’s out of the question.

Regardless of what is happening, however, there still begs the question, will Tony and Steve be good together, anyway? Bucky has only been gone for three days and already they’re at each other’s throats, falling right back on where they were at the beginning. 

Then again, it was never Tony that didn’t like Steve. Tony’s loved him since the first time he saw the spangly man on the quinjet, standing up straight with his hands behind his back, nearly perfectly in parade rest, that stupid shield slung across his back. He was just so big and blond and perfect, and when he’d opened his mouth, revealing a sharp tongue that could strategize better than a chess master? Tony was already gone.

And now, it isn’t really Steve that doesn’t like Tony, either. He loves him, enough to respect the boundaries Tony’s set up. It’s got to be killing him, though, being so far from his daughter. He hasn’t said it explicitly, but Tony would put down money for the lack of closeness with his unborn baby being one of the factoring reasons for Steve’s breakdowns, which, oh God, was over Bucky and Tony leaving him...

Tony throws his sandwich on the table and walks as fast as he can to the elevator, cursing his aching back and hips the whole way. He tells Jarvis speed up the journey, arriving at Steve’s floor with his heart beating a tattoo against his ribcage. Oh, fuck, he shouldn’t have left Steve alone. Steve hadn’t come down because Tony needed food and water and sleep (though Tony did), he’d come because he’d needed companionment and he’d been too afraid to ask for it.

As Tony orders Jarvis to open the door and makes a beeline for Steve’s room, one thing’s for certain: while Tony isn’t sure whether they’ll pull it together, he’s starting to think that for Bucky, Steve, and his daughter’s sake (and maybe for Tony’s, too), they’re going to have to try.

-

Bucky’s able to open his eyes much quicker, this time, though it’s probably because the truck is currently traveling through some sort of forest, from what he can see through the teeny window and the much larger ones beyond. The branches are filtering the light that’s filling the tiny back of the van, and a part of Bucky is thankful. The other part of him is concerned, because he has no fucking clue where he is. 

The van bounces a little as it travels along the road, and one particularly jarring jolt has Bucky slamming his head back dully and biting back a groan. His headache isn’t gone, not at all, but Bucky knows he’s running out of time. He’s unsure of whether the two drivers decided to go through with the gas stop or not, and if they already made it if they did.

He really really hopes they didn’t. A quick glance around him, ignoring his throbbing head, is enough to reignite the part of Winter he never really minded, the part that is all tactical mastermind, the part that has zero fucks to give.

So, escape. If he piles the boxes haphazardly in front of the little window, he can make it look like the van tumbled and blocked it. They probably won’t think much of it. Or will they? Bucky tries to lean forward to inspect the cardboard boxes and immediately starts listing to the side. He hits the van floor with a dull thump, and he can’t stop the quiet groan that escapes through his lips for that. 

His arm doesn’t work. It’s a fucking deadweight. He tries in vain to rotate his shoulder out from where the arm is trapped under his body, but it doesn’t move. Tony had planned for this, he knew, told him that there was some sort of switch that will kill the whole thing and remove it…

Bucky stretches his other arm over himself awkwardly and feels around where his shoulder and the metal connect, trying to find the little tiny button. The pad of his first finger catches on something so he presses desperately in that area, screwing his eyes shut as he is forced to twist even more on himself, his other shoulder _aching_ with the strain.

There’s a quiet hiss of air and the arm sort of falls, now only connected by a few wires. 

_Only to do in emergencies,_ were Tony’s words. _The wiring’s gonna be a bitch to replace._

Bucky thinks this situation qualifies.

He leans down, craning his neck, and bites the wires with his teeth, severing them. They snap easily and Bucky rolls over onto his back, leaving the arm on the floor a couple inches away from him as he breathes heavily. 

After a couple of minutes, he pushes himself back up to an upright position, squeezing his eyes shut as the sensation of boiling blood rushes into his brain, filling it until it throbs even more. Fuck.

Looking at the arm on the floor, just lying there, clean and silver on the grimy car bottom, Bucky’s eyes start to drift to the window in the divider, and the opaque one across from him, and he has an idea…

They stop for gas. It’s about twenty minutes from when Bucky’d taken off his arm, and he’s spent his time going through the boxes quietly and foraging for anything useful. Most of the boxes do, in fact, have shoes in them, but Bucky needs something preferably sharp… he can barely contain his smile when he sees one full of stilettos, all colors.

He selects a pair of black ones, because who knows? He might even get wild on his way home, and tests them against the edge of the van window across from him. If he’s correct, which he usually is, the gas tank filler should be on his side of the car, either right behind him or somewhere near the door at the very end of the van. That’s where they’ll be looking, and maybe he’ll have enough time to pry open the window and escape while they’re inside the shitty convenience store, getting snacks or taking a piss… 

Even without his metal arm, his real arm is still chock full of Hydra's bastardized version of the serum, and packs a hell of a punch. He wedges the end of the stiletto underneath the crack where the glass meets the metal and presses down on the rest of the shoe until he hears a crack and a fissure appears in the bottom of the window. Bucky grins to himself. Give him two minutes and he’ll be able to make the whole thing shatter. 

Although… he looks at the stiletto in his hand and the window, and realizes that maybe this isn’t the best idea. It’ll likely cause quite a noise, and without his metal arm and with all the physical pain he feels, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to fight anyone at the moment, much less several people with a gun. Still, it’s not like he can just pop his head through the window and politely ask for a bathroom break… yeah, maybe not. Of course, he could just punch the window out, but then there runs the risk of fragments left in the frame, and adding glass slashes to his arms and sides is not his priority right now.

He does want to make everything as seamless as possible, however, and what better way to do that than to pretend he’s still in the van? This part’s a little tricky, but he just manages to balance the boxes and then position his arm on top of them so the edge of the arm is poking into view, enough that one would be able to look back from the driver’s or passenger’s seat and be able to see it.

The car door opens, slams, and Bucky can faintly hear the sounds of someone pressing buttons on the gas station behind him. Bucky smiles a little, glad he was right about the placement of the tank. 

He hears the one outside calling to the driver, telling him to check on Bucky to make sure he hasn’t gone anywhere. The sound of someone twisting in their seat and looking behind them can be heard, and Bucky keeps absolutely still. He doesn’t breathe. 

A much gruffer voice, belonging to the driver, calls back that Bucky is pressed up against the divider, and knocked out cold. The other man laughs, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief when the driver steps out of the car too, the van creaking and then letting up as he exits.

Bucky cranes his neck against the cold metal, willing his super solider hearing to extend that much further… 

Footsteps walk away… 

A bell jingles as a door is pushed open…

And closed…

Bucky grabs his heel tightly and wedges it under the window, working as fast as he can. One, two, three pushes and cracks spider up the glass, growing larger and larger until the window suddenly falls in tiny fragments of glass, littering the van floor. 

Bucky shields his eyes from the sudden onslaught of sunlight, gasping and blinking back tears. It must have been brighter outside than he thought. Bucky takes a deep breath and fits his legs through the window, bracing his hands on the sides of the window frame as he slithers through, and lands on the floor in a heap. His sides ache from the tight fit, his visions slightly blurry from the overexertion, and his palms are stinging and cut up from left over jagged fragments of glass that stuck out from the frame. 

Still, he’s free. 

He turns around quickly and arranges some of the boxes in front of the window so they can’t see directly inside, knowing that it wouldn’t fool a fly into thinking the window was still there, but feeling the need to try anyway.

There’s another cluster of buildings and businesses across the street and it’s as if Bucky’s on autopilot, his training and experience from Winter bleeding into his movements as he ducks behind the other cars and picks his way to the highway, crossing it quickly and blending in to the shadows under the awnings of the buildings. 

He’s still wearing the hoodie he went out with and he uses his right arm to carefully tuck his left sleeve into his kangaroo pouch, knowing full well that a second glance would immediately reveal the illusion of still having an arm there, but not really giving a shit. 

He enters through the door, hearing the same jingling bell from the gas station, and familiar smells assault his nose. There’s no one else in the restaurant. 

It’s clear he doesn’t have any money, but he must look more bedraggled and beaten up than he thought, because a small woman with an apron and salt and pepper hair pulled back into a tight women sidles out behind the counter and asks him what he wants kindly in poorly accented english.

He answers the best he can, _carne asada_ , and tells her he doesn’t have any money. She waves his statement away and walks away, returning with a cup of water, leading him to a table to sit. 

“Be back,” she tells him, and Bucky thinks of Steve’s hugs and blinding smile and Tony’s perfectly coiffed hair and perfect grin as he tries his best to smile back warmly, conveying his thanks.

She returns soon with the food, and he scarfs it down like he’s never eaten anything before, just cramming it into his mouth as fast as possible. The woman brings a man to him from the back about halfway through his meal, chattering to him in spanish, and the man sits across from Bucky.

He asks Bucky what he needs, in english, and Bucky answers that he needs to get to Manhattan. The man grins, and tells him he’s a couple hundred miles out, but there’s a train that can take him as far as Brooklyn. Bucky says that’s fine, and if he could please direct him in the direction of the train station, and also whether he’d lend him some money.

“I’d pay you back,” Bucky hastens to add, thinking of the hundreds of thousands of dollars he has sitting in his back account, both from army back pay and Shield.

The man just smiles and tells him not to worry about it. 

By midday, Bucky’s on the train, a burrito tucked into his pocket for later consumption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i have no idea how to write kidnappings or escape plans, but the idea of Bucky with some black stilettos in his hands just felt right
> 
> please comment! I absolutely will reply :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also kind of have a thing for alleys, apparently
> 
> also, I will be updating the entire summary!

Bucky is sitting on the train, squashed up sideways in the corner with his right arm to the door and his left shoulder pressed against the seat, when he realizes he fucked up.

In his hurry to escape the van (in which he sadly had to leave the stilettos), and ask the nice people in the taqueria for directions back to Manhattan, he completely forgot that his main priority should have been contacting Steve and Tony. 

There was a pay phone at the train station, Bucky knows, because he’d been standing right next to it while he waited for the train to reach the platform. It’d been on a big yellow post, and a man had even used it while Bucky was waiting, his voice hushed and hand cupped over his mouth.

At the time, Bucky hadn’t even entertained the notion of using the phone, his thoughts instead racing around his left arm, his mind trying its best to convince him that every single person in the entire station knew he was missing an arm, knew who he was, what he had just had done, etc., even if Bucky knew that no one really was. He was also fighting the compulsive urge to turn around every couple of seconds to scan the area around him, also convinced that more Hydra operatives were just lurking around the corner, ready to descend from the eaves and take him back on another little impromptu road trip. 

In short, he was worrying about other things than calling his boyfriends. Now, however, it was the only thing on the forefront of his mind. 

There are exactly three people in his train car; two women and one other man. A young girl and her father are near the doors, the girl swinging back and forth on the bright blue pole, the man grabbing the back of her puffy red jacket to catch her lest the train lurched suddenly. They seem occupied enough, and Bucky’s heart hammers at the thought of trying to talk with the dad, asking to borrow his phone while the little girl just stares. She’s too young to politely look away, and he just doesn’t want the extra gaze on him, he realizes, so they’re out.

An older woman sits across from him, her wrinkled face pulled taught with smile lines and crow’s feet. She has a smartphone; Bucky can see the little white SI logo on a shiny black surface poking out of her bag, but she looks old enough that she likely won’t know how to text, let alone call someone. That’s an ability Bucky’s banking on her to know, truth to be told, as he’s not even sure _he_ would know how to call someone on that blasted device.

If it came down to it, however, he would be able to figure it out. The only issue is that at the mere thought of distangling himself from his heap in the corner of his train car and leaning over to ask for his phone, maybe having to potentially raise his voice for her to understand, starts a cold sweat down the back of his neck. 

His heart begins to beat faster, and the fingers on his right hand start to twitch, yearning for something to twist between them. So asking for a phone is out. 

Bucky should feel like a failure, his own anxiety clouding over better judgement and what he needs to get done, but all he really feels is relieved. He’ll probably get a good chewing out for this once he’s reunited with his boys, but for now, he just scrunches himself tighter into his little ball on the train seat, staring resolutely out the dirty window next to him, watching the warm cows flit by until they’re replaced by cool cement. 

How he’s going to get from Brooklyn to Manhattan is a goddamned mystery, but then again, what isn’t?

[]

“Steve? Steve!” Tony calls out the other man’s name as he hurries as fast his pregnant body will carry him to the door. It’s slightly ajar, with no light spilling from within the room to the hallway outside, and Tony swings it open, only hesitating a little. 

He walks in quickly, ignoring his aching back and the way he’s breathing like he just ran a goddamn marathon. 

“Steve?” he repeats, and a gruff, “in here,” answers him from the bedroom. Tony hobbles over and swings that door open, unsurprised to find Steve sat against the headboard of his bed, at his feet stretched out in front of him. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Tony asks, and Steve swallows heavily, but doesn’t say anything, doesn't look up. Belatedly, Tony realizes Steve’s breathing is slightly ragged, and when he approaches the bed to take a closer look, the light filtering through the window glitters on two silver tear tracks running in straight lines down his face. 

“Don’t cry,” Tony murmurs, at a loss for what to say. He isn’t sure of the thoughts flitting through Steve’s head, but when Steve suddenly turns to him, a fresh tear rolling down his cheek, Tony makes up his mind for what to do. 

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly, and hops up on the bed as gracefully as he can, which is to say, very ungracefully.

Steve wipes his face hurriedly with big hands, staring at Tony warily. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice creaking like a screen door in a hurricane. 

“Truthfully? I’m not sure,” Tony says, settling his hands in his lap like an overgrown schoolgirl. “I’m sorry for being an ass earlier,” he offers.

“It’s okay,” Steve says roughly. “I’m getting too worked up over this anyway,” he mutters. 

“No, you’re not. I miss him, too. I, uh, should have realized that I was…” _not actually the most important person in the room when you came down to the workshop_ “...being insensitive.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders suddenly hitch with a small, keening whine, and Tony’s resolve breaks. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, dragging himself over to Steve. He nudges the other man’s thighs open gently and awkwardly hops over to sit between them, carefully resting his back against Steve’s firm chest.

He awkwardly leans back and grabs both of Steve’s hands, draping them over himself. “Can you hold me like this? Just for a little while? Would that make you feel better?” Tony’s talking to him like a child, and he knows that they can both tell. He’s worried that this will make Steve draw away, wary of the patronization, because Captain America isn’t the kind of man to be coddled and told everything’s going to be okay. Then again, these last few months, Tony isn’t sure. 

To his immense surprise, Steve does it without questions, pulling Tony tighter against him as he buries his face in his neck. “How are you feeling?” Tony asks quietly, wondering how the other man is going to respond, if he does at all. 

“Fine,” Steve mumbles, and when Tony doesn’t reply, he sighs heavily, sending a puff of warm air over Tony’s collarbone. “Not great,” he mutters. 

“He’s gone. Again.” Steve takes a shuddering breath and his arms tighten briefly. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“What you’ve always done. Kept your head high and followed through.”

Steve shakes his head, his hair brushing Tony’s ears. “You didn’t see me the other day,” he whispers, and Tony frowns, his eyebrows creasing.

“The other day?” he questions, and Steve takes another deep breath. 

“I couldn’t get out of bed. Nothing to live for.”

“Steve…” Tony starts, but he doesn’t quite know how to finish. They’ve all been there at one point or another, but somehow, even knowing that Steve has diagnosed c-PTSD and depression, Tony’s been holding onto the thought that maybe Captain America would be exempt from such thoughts. Clearly not. 

“Bucky helped me,” Steve mutters. “And now he’s gone,” he chokes, and pushes his face between Tony’s shoulder blades, his nose poking into his spine. It’s uncomfortable, and as Tony’s shirt begins to get hot and wet in the back from the other man’s tears, he thinks that he should probably be comforting Steve right now, should turn around and tell him that everything’s going to be alright, but he just can’t. 

This. 

This is one of the worst things that could have ever happened to Steve. He’s fragile, still recovering from keeping his emotions bottled up and not letting them out, and losing one of the people that was the part of the cause for the whole mess in the person….

Tony couldn’t even imagine the pain. So instead, he lets Steve cry until the small keening whines disappear and he stops shuddering, and his breathing begins to even out. 

“Steve,” he says gently but firmly, waiting until he acknowledges that he heard Tony. “Steve, we’re right here. Both of us.”

Carefully, oh so carefully, he takes Steve’s hands from where they’d been lying on Tony’s waist and places them feather-light on his swollen stomach, hearing another sob hitch in Steve’s throat. “She’s right here, too,” he whispers. “Bucky will come back, he will, but for right now, you have us.”

“Thank you,” Steve gasps out, hooking his chin over Tony’s shoulder and looking down at his huge hands cradling Tony’s bump. “I know you don’t care, but I love you,” he murmurs, before his breathing evens out indefinitely and drifts asleep.

Tony wants to shake him awake again. 

He wants to scream, _“Don’t care? What are you talking about? I love you so fucking much, you dork. Take it back!”_ He doesn’t, of course, because Steve needs his rest. 

But he wants to, because it’s just hit him: _He’s falling in love with Steve_.

Not in lust, like he was some odd eight months ago, or even just starting to love him, like he loves Rhodey or Pepper or Happy, but is really, truly, falling in love with him. 

Shit. This is kind of a big deal. Does being in love with Steve mean he has to start a relationship with him? Does it mean he has to forget about the pain they’ve both gone through?

The answer: probably not, but Tony… Tony wonders. He’s forgiven Steve and has asked for space, and Steve has done nothing but grant him that and respect his boundaries, while also being there for him whenever Tony needed him to be. 

Tony won’t lie to himself and say that he doesn’t find Steve attractive, because it was that ass that got him in trouble in the first place. He knows he trusts Steve, because you’d have to be a fool to not notice the fucking loyalty the man’s displayed since the 1930s. He thinks Steve’s kind, he thinks he’s truly changing, and most important of all, Tony knows Steve would be wonderful with their daughter, and he knows he’ll be there for her whether he and Tony get together or not.

So what the fuck is holding him back, then? 

_You’re scared_ , his mind whispers, _You’re scared he’ll hurt you again._

And he is. He’s fucking terrifed. But he’s also done waiting and thinking and sitting on the idea. Yeah, maybe Bucky’s impromptu vacation has sped things up a little, but there’s no time like the present.

He lets Steve sleep quietly for about an hour, before the aches in his joints grow a little too pronounced to be ignored. He gently leans back until the other man is resting against pillows and his headboard, and extracts himself from the bed, crossing the room quietly to the bathroom where he relieves himself and splashes some water on his face.

“Get ahold of yourself, Stark,” he tells himself sternly.

“Tony?” calls an uncertain voice from the bed, and Tony swears quietly, not having meant to wake Steve.

“Go back to bed, sweetheart,” Tony murmurs, going to Steve’s side and gently running his hand through silky blond hair, but only once.

“Tony?” he asks again, confusion clouding bright blue eyes.

“I’ll be here when you wake up, Steve, I’m not going to leave you, not again,” Tony whispers, making up his mind in that exact instant. 

Then he leans down and presses his lips feather-light to Steve’s, reveling in the warm tingling feeling it leaves when it goes away. Yeah, he’s made up his mind.

[]

After spending his time in the van all curled up and then sitting in the same position in the train, Bucky walks out onto the subway platform with his thighs and knees protesting with every step. His fatigue is starting to really catch up with him, so he pinches his thigh, hard, trying to wake himself up. He knows he’s in Brooklyn, now, and should probably be looking for a map or something, but his stomach growls, telling him there are other things he needs to take care of, first. He eats the extra burrito, now cold and soggy but still delicious, and tries to decide where to go. 

He’s been joined by a throng of people, now, and though the crowded hallways make his heart stutter in his chest, it’s a hell of a lot better than the train car, with people’s immediate attention on him. Even so, he throws away the tin foil wrapper in the first bin he sees and ducks his head down, keeping his profile unsuspicious and unassuming. It’s times like this that he fucking loves his long hair. 

He makes his way to the stairs and to the light of day, blinking in the light that greets him. He looks both ways, trying to find something familiar to get his bearings with, because dammit, this is the city he grew up in and knows like the back of his hand, but all there is around him is metal and people and flashing lights and _noise_...

His breathing starts to pick up and he’s convinced that everyone’s staring at him now, wondering what the hell he’s doing, but he doesn’t dare lift his head for fear of someone recognizing him, and _fuck_ there’s the prickling warm sensation of tears behind his eyes, his face growing hot with it, and he just wants Steve and Tony to be with him _so fucking bad right now_.

He steps into an alley, the first one he sees, and slides down the wall, cradling his head in his hands. He gulps in breaths of air, his thoughts tumbling through his brain and trying to fish for some sort of plan, or something he can do to get in contact, anything, _anything_ –

“Personally, I like to have my panic attacks in sanitary places,” says a snarky voice to his right, and Bucky is on his feet before he knows it, reaching for a neck that isn’t there with an arm that isn’t there… 

“Up here,” Clint says, jumping down from the building neatly. “Damn, you move fast.”

Bucky glowers at him, but can’t stop the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, and the knot of tension in his sternum that suddenly dissipates. Clint’s still talking, presumably saying something about getting back to the tower, or meeting up with Nat or Steve, but Bucky’s vision is blinking out, the darkness in the alley becoming darker, if possible, and suddenly there are large hands on his shoulders, gently holding him up. 

Clint’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle when he carefully pulls Bucky to his side, holding him up with a muscled arm around the waist. “I’m going to need you to stay with me, Barnes. C’mon, let's get you to a car.” 

The idea of sitting down seems like something he should be protesting fiercely, but all he can muster up is crushing relief at the idea of getting to settle his bones. Clint half walks, half drags them to a sleek black car waiting at a street corner, opening the back door and carefully settling him in before buckling up in the front seat. 

“You ready to go home?” Natasha asks from behind the steering wheel, and Bucky manages half a nod before thunking his head back against his seat, breathing out a sigh. 

The journey took a little over forty minutes, and Bucky’s been drifting in and out of sleep the entire time, staying awake enough to register the hushed whispering that floats between the two in front, but not nearly enough to understand what words are actually being spoken. 

The journey from the car to the inside of Stark Tower is one that Bucky makes, but just barely, and only because Clint’s holding his elbow on one side, Natasha the other. He makes it inside, however, and slumps inside the elevator once they enter.

His heart is making another valiant effort to jump out of his chest, even just thinking of seeing Tony or Steve again, but he’s also looking forward to his nice warm bed, or a bath... He sighs just thinking about it, the sound mirrored by the elevator a second later when the doors slide open. 

He lifts his head to look, but before he can even fully take in the sight of the two most beautiful people in the world, he’s being hugged to within an inch of his life. A firm chest collides with him forcefully, large arms wrapping around him while hands just as big wrap themselves around his waist. Steve smells like dust and sweat and hard work, like he always has, and Bucky burrows further into the enclosure of the man’s arms with a dry sob.

Then there’s the scent of spicy cologne at his left shoulder, and Tony’s head is there, a mess of black curls settling in the place where Bucky’s shoulder curves into Steve’s chest. He sighs happily, and Bucky awkwardly removes an arm to hug him, too, mindful of the baby bump Tony’s keeping facing away from them. 

It isn’t comfortable, not anymore, but Bucky couldn’t care less because they’re here, waiting for him, like he hoped. He breathes in deeply, and feels Steve nosing into his hair, stroking along his back with his left hand, but his right hand has disappeared and _oh_ , it’s resting on Tony’s shoulder, rubbing it soothingly, and belatedly Bucky wonders what that’s all about…

...but then his vision blinks and grays, his head starts to swim, his legs buckle, and his fatigue finally claims him, rushing forward with welcoming darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed I haven't updated in, oh, maybe over a month? While I didn't intend for this to happen, it's been a much needed break to get my head screwed on right. 
> 
> Next chapter we'll get to see way more Stony, and possibly the beginnings of the birth of a certain baby...? 
> 
> also! I need ideas for cute baby and boyfriend shit. come talk to me on tumblr: 21greendragons
> 
> Thank you so much for leaving kudos and commenting <3

**Author's Note:**

> *coughs awkwardly* so that happened. I, uh, hope you guys liked it, and if you leave comments or kudos I'll love you forever <3
> 
> This will update every Tuesday/Wednesday for the foreseeable future, and if you have any questions, suggestions, or corrections, I'd love to hear 'em!


End file.
